What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?
No longer an illness, and where silence
Was once the touch of feet on first moss
Of spring, now a cloak of azurite.
Somewhere in a stand of hollow eyed birch
A stag is wailing his lament
For the death of the sun. I took hold of the shielded blade
Gifted by an enemy, now to slice cheese
From the heart of an explosion
Three score and a continuance
Carve the orphans of spring coppices
And willow wood, slide into places
That will keep you in the light of minds chapel
I walked by the ancient stone barns
That little knife in hand
Felled from enemies touch
And rising like an anxious tide in the river
Blaze of Obscurity 
Your melody and the craft of each line render irrelevant my ability (or lack thereof) to piece it all together into story. Things like this: “A stag is wailing his lament
For the death of the sun. I took hold of the shielded blade
Gifted by an enemy,” take you places. And then the road ends, leaving your mind in the mists of the enchanted wood until another strand takes you up and leads you elsewhere. A labyrinth of verse, by which I’m fascinated. (To be honest, in my own work I now have a new nudge — this one: “Think of Blaze. Evoke. Don’t be so damned literal.)
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Haha! It’s all very literal though, at least to my mind!
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