R. Winter

If every wave in every field—

If every cave and travel yield—

Were much softer here than they were… 

Before...

If I traveled as far as the maps could take

still no one but me saw the flames on the stakes,

Then perhaps, the air—

around me— would have been 

enough to calm my thoughts… 

Drifted endlessly...

But the world felt so small.

What place could there be?

where the walls were warm red… 

And the sky was pitch black,

so I jumped into bed, 

In an impulsive act

that freed a whole nation, from the God they called me.

The torches in the dark, were

Stars in the sky, but

Every tree–

Every castle, 

Every boat— 

And every saddle, gave ne’er enough stars to fill my pockets.

Which were to the soul, 

As hands are to fingers

And all of the sand,

And every grain of earth, 

Fell to them and through

Like heavy, worthless hearth.

As kings construct empires

The fools be who smile—

I stop in my sun, skies,

caves and rivers...

Yet none of my smiles compared to the jest.

An eternity of life 

Is a second to the bird, 

with no flock to split

 The cost of freedom, is worthless.

Every diamond, and every gold bar–

I wasted on shoes that ran without soles,

I wasted on swords that swung without hilts,

And realized with each speck of snow on my skin,

That I couldn’t die till the day I was buried—

In the fields, in the ocean

In the caves, in the hells

In the sky, in my home,

In the void which told me that I could be love,

That my world was worthless

bereft the beat of others

How was I to think

This hell could be enough?

Each place I would go,

and each place I would beg:

Could water fill lungs that yearned but for breath?

But the skies and the woods

The stars and the ivy

The highest of heavens

And the hells would remind me:

I would never breathe a breath

in a land I called mine.

I would always be alone

on an island lost to time.

I would never be fulfilled—

A king without love...

Told riches and power

they'd never be enough.