One day, we’ll worship rust
and marvel how it claimed
the world of industrious metal,
leaving nothing but slowing
reddening struts, half-hearted
angles reaching outward.

We’ll dive into the wrecks
looking for half-sparking wonders
that, when properly restored, gleam
into sputtering song or splitting
pictures of different worlds
and the faces of old Gods.

“The Valley”

We swept through the valley like wind
rustling over undergrowth and roots,
drinking our fill of air and life and love.

we found that grove of trees,
heard those voices older than words,
felt faces in the bark and salt
on the floor – blood was spilt
long ago, here, for Gods long gone.

once, they’d stood together
on roots drunk with life
once, they’d stood together
against a legion’s love
once, they’d lay together
amidst the burning trees.

from that grove a new emerges,
godless, born of salt and blood
and song: the song’s of bards
born before the wall could crumble.

we found that grove, and many others:
we found and we remember
what chants lived in these boughs,
and what God’s died in them.

“Well Meaning”

Eventually the songs dry out,
the nice words and good advice
disappear like the intentions
they once tried to express.

All the well-meaning wanderings
walk out of sight of the sky
sooner or later – it’ll hide behind
a cloud or concrete tomb.

It would be easy to lose faith
falling at the roadside discarding
everything you’d picked up
on the journey

“We’re all Broken People”

We’re all broken people
in our own way.

We all wear scars
either of our own forging
or forced on our fading
ill-watching ill-receiving flesh.

We all had lives
turned and twisted inside
out by what we couldn’t
control; some of us deserved it.

I don’t know where I stand
when weighted against you.

I only have what experience
has told me; that I am broken.

Who else drinks alone?