But still there are no stars

Carving Faces

Only 37% of fledgling birds survive to adulthood

But still there are no stars,

the lights of town, though far 

off, hiding the distance

between us.

There will be no miracles

here, only a reminder of 

the finite space that we

inhabit. The burning cross

maintains that some keep faith 

still within the stone cold 

walls, holding sway over the 

lesser lights below,

of farms, of pubs, of houses,

the distractions that we tend 

to while waiting for sleep to 

come, the lasting midnight 

that it nurtures.

But for the moment this is a

land of lasting darkness, and

it is a waiting that we keep.

Today we are carving faces,

marking the soft flesh. 

Something to be

scared of, or to scare,

to keep away the cold 

outside or the one within. 

Taking care with the blade 

that would cut deeper, 

still, and caress, loving.

The blood 

that aches to be spilt,

run free, to dream, and 

see how it would dream.

Alight, we thought that

we heard the cries, but

could not tell if they 

came from without or in.

What must it be like –

this fleeting glimpse?

Narrow boundaries. Defined

by an emptiness interpreted

as pain; too young to be

able to comprehend the

greater moments of calm.

Too eager, sometimes.

Too weak.

Unlucky.

Awaking, too slowly, to

fleeting glimpses of

the sun. Aching for the 

limitations we call our own.