#young bard

Only a handful of days had passed since Bard had been gifted a bow and he could not seem to take his hands off it. He brought it everywhere around the house with him (and was of course told off when he brought it to the dinner table), he pestered his father endlessly about letting his practice, he fletched arrows almost obsessively for it...Truth be told his parents were starting to get a little worried. 

It was probably because of this that his father allowed him to bring the bow whenever they went to collect barrels. The woods provided a good place to practice and Bard would often try his luck at shooting down flowers or acorns. He fancied himself a hunter like his father and then one day he came across...

          memory,  a lovers' cast,

   the deep search–

the humming moon

                              my boyish swoon

                                                          your graceful perch

   on the bough of my indeterminate reality.

–My soul–

  in dream, in flight,

                            whirring

                                       breathing–

      belong,

                  "but not to me".

and as the thorns crawled

                                       up my weak thought mast

                you continue to stand

                                                  illuminated.

yet,

      here I am,

                      drowned in the elixer

                                                       of pain–

searching the constellations

                                           for your name.

ruined,

              heartbroken,

praying it was all worth it.

                                      Inamorata–

I can hear you in the other room     —of my mind   take me to you    —on your words while I am singing    and           take me to you  because you want to hear my breathing   and         take me   to that place                     —where I stop dreaming  I'm sorry               —I can't stop screaming Tonight       —again     dressed in this                          —sorrow I have no strength to act                             but to      ask           —yet again to breathe for me

as the leaves hold to their branches

as the water to the earth

part not with your desires

as memories part of each passing soul

let not time

consume your desires

so she speaks---

of

rain dripping down a mountain crevasse

sometimes steady

sometimes slow

always

into the parting earth

always away from the glow

so she tells---

to

the torn hearts

the barren skies

in her small voice

that is not swallowed

her words;

on her words

do our desires