The maples have grown old; Orchards have begun to wither. The reds and greens have faded. Climbing the heights, I Feel the chill of late Autumn. A ceaseless pounding sound Drowns out the setting sun. Remembered sorrows flock To mind, making new sorrows. We are separated By a thousand miles; From our two distant places We can't even meet in dreams. The rain stops, and the sky clears; One can see the twelve green peaks. Speechless, who could understand My angst, as I stand cliffside. I can write of my grief, but Will the clouds bring a reply?
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
A loose shard of thought Flips and twists about in My brain, Poking sensitive tissue, And sending firestorms Riffling through my circuitry. I can't really say I feel each Prickle or pierce, but they Do make me wince, sometimes.
Of all the masters & all the slaves,
I find that mind fire burns in waves.
And sometimes the emotions derail
too quickly to lengthen the exhale.
Trees falling in the forest, unheard,
can still crush a nest of baby birds.
Turns out it's not the sound that matters,
but what the destruction leaves in tatters.
The phrase “Queen of Slaves” comes from a Percy Bysshe Shelley poem (Canto 4, No. 24)
Tiger Riding for Beginners 