There are a few things
that can't be said.
For you, the words would fall and sway
you'd dodge them . . .

I, am not that lucky.
I can not get away.
These demons do haunt me
their faces, my skies.

Caustic words do bite
but my forgotten flesh can't feel.
I don't remember this,
I don't remember how to live.

How does this work?
What do I say?
When do I turn around, leave it here,
walk away?

The will lays beaten,
bruised and burned into the ground.
It was held there so long, it's forgotten . .
how do you tell a dream to get up?

In their smiling words take comfort
but of this haunt take heed;
Even those who walk out a window,
walk out.

"Bright beings! that ponder
with half-closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder,
hath drawn from the skies"
~Al Araaf, EAP

Never has Ebony been so insulted, than the day a dove from the bur'ned ashes did rise.  In his throat, a song, and a fire in his eyes.

What is so precious than a babe?  That when he does sleep, all who look upon him feel shame in bidding his neighbor ill-will.  Come, come round the sleeping babe and let us be merry, for what beings are we to worry when he is content?  There is no room for fear when a child's sleeping eyes are near, for why would He let a demon-being so near a felled angel?  Come, come round the sleeping babe and let us be merry.

And, while all these tidbits sum up the majority of my thoughts this eve, I end with another that re-occupies my mind in such a startling way you'd think part of me were kept with him, and my body does miss it being away.

Sweet seraph, whose broken wings he hath not the will to flight, come rest at my bedside.  No wearies bring with you, nor fears will allowed; instead, sweet seraph, the calm of a lovers hand and two praying eyes need all be brought to rest here tonight.