Krissie Writes

Like these rails lead only to the end,

That I’ll sit still, unmoving,

fightless until my last breath,

“Be kind to each other,” said the man on the mount, “For all you are one, even those you’ve cast out.”

But the priests and the kings took all the man’s gifts, And they said to their subjects “Give us all that exists!

We have heard the wise words of the man on the mount, And we are made pure, while you heathens are not!”

Then the man from the mount came down to the kings, And he said “Fools, I did not say any of those things!

Be kind to all, slave, free, holy and heathen, For you are just as impure as one guilty of treason.”

The priests said to the man “What of those you despise? Are we to be lower than even the unbaptized?”

The man said “I’ll tell you again what I told you before, There are none I despise, not the queer, dark or poor.

No matter your thoughts and your personal bias, I assure you, your enemies are just as pious.”

And the priests said to themselves “We’ll live forever, too!” Where the wise would say simply “It’s the right thing to do.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time,

Machines that would speed up our lives,

But on rivers of coal, they poisoned the air,

On the backs of a million souls every year.

From the river, life flows, from the soil it grows, into more than the sum of its parts.

And the forest, so precious, fills me with peace, but it burns in the blink of an eye.

Through the scent of smoke, the air becomes toxic, and flying machines drown out the birdsong.

The world outside grows wider, empty space yearns to be filled.

But the world inside closes in. Reality smaller than ever.

What once was brimming with laughter and song, I now see only a smog.

Autumn leaves carpet the woods. A light wind blows and they are scattered. The leaves float through the air, and land on a red fox, blanketing it as it rests.

A grey fox lies nearby, shivering. He approaches the red fox and asks for leaves.

The red fox growls. “These leaves are mine!” It says. “Find your own leaves!”

And the grey fox walks off, the wind blowing against him. He looks for leaves, but can find none, so he returns to the red fox, where its pile of leaves has grown substantially.

“There are no more leaves!” Says the grey fox. “You have taken them all!”

“You should have been faster!” Replies the red fox. “But I can make a deal. Bring me the flesh of a rabbit every day, and I will let you rest in my leaves.”

And the grey fox obliges and brings the red fox its meals every day, until there are no more rabbits in the forest and he can no longer find food for himself.

“I will find a new forest to live in.” says the red fox. “The leaves are yours.”

But the grey fox has no choice but to follow the red fox. In the new forest, there lives a wolf.

“Move away!” Says the red fox. But the wolf pays no heed.

“These are my leaves now!” The red fox tries to intimidate the wolf, but to no avail. The wolf instead, bites off the end of the red fox’s tail.

The red fox screeches in agony and begs for forgiveness. “Please give me some leaves to rest in!” It beseeches.

“I will give you both fifty leaves.” The wolf replies. “If either of you take even one more leaf, I will have you for dinner.”

And both the foxes agreed, afraid to fight the wolf. But the wolf keeps one thousand leaves to himself.

Then along comes the bear, who sees the wolf living comfortably and asks him where they got their leaves.

“I found them.” The wolf replies.

The bear shakes her head. “I do not believe you found them as much as the wind brought them to you.”

“So they did, but they are mine.”

What is a dream but a memory?

Beyond the dusk and before the dawn,

We think we saw what never was,

And only know when we awake.

Deep within itself the mind will reach,

Through joys and fears and sorrows and love,

Constructing worlds from little more,

Than pictures that we’ve seen before.

Awaking from the terror of night,

From visions of pain, of death, of fright,

What do they tell us of the thoughts,

And desires from whence they came?

Do they warn us, tell us where to go?

Or explain to us the thoughts within,

Our minds, our ears, our heart and soul,

So we can be our honest selves?

Or are they simply passing pictures?

Random collage, devoid of meaning,

Seen only to be forgotten,

What is there to say that hasn’t already been said?

What is there to see that hasn’t already been seen?

Has the sun not shined as long as the Earth’s existed?

What can be made new from scraps yet to be collected?

Through the burning of stars, through life and death,

whether now or whether then,

these words have been said by many before myself.

And just like then, they’ll be forgotten, through the wind and lost to time,

And just like now there’ll be another,

To carry the torch, burning in these words.

And though not new to the sun or the moon,

to one who’s yet to open their eyes,