A Song of the Slain



I wondered about you for hours afterward,

That day I saw you praying on a southbound train;

Later, I turned my face up in the pouring rain,

And I hoped that your prayer had not been in vain,

Not least of all because your brow had been furrowed in pain,

But also because I saw your reflection next to mine in the windowpane,

And it seemed to me that they were the same;

Each tear-stained, no matter the Gods we strained to explain

To ourselves as we tried to attain

The freedom that would break our chains;

Can we go back to that moment, again –

Sing, together, a song of the slain,

Pray to our Gods that they may always reign

Or has it waned too far to ever be regained –

That moment, in the sacred domain

Of a southbound train speeding valiantly onwards in the rain?


eschatology: a poem



(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)


I am the rain that falls,

I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.

I am the silence
That befalls all sound.

Sorrowfully, I Saw You



I saw you on the train the other day,

Crying out under the burden

Of someone else’s sorrows,

Or at least I imagined that it was you,

And that you were crying,

And that the sorrows were not your own.


I saw you down the hall as well,

Standing in perfect stillness,

Knees bent under the weight

Of our caprice,

Head bowed as if in prayer,

Or at least I pretended it was you,

And maybe even said a prayer of my own

To the Old Gods we used to howl to,

When the moon was full of joy,

And so were we.

Creatures of the Night



They are out

In the pouring rain,

In the bitterest dregs of the night,

In those early, pre-dawn morning hours

Where so few creatures dare to stir,

Some of them human,

Most of them spending those long and lonely hours

Praying for the glimmering hope of first light,

All united in their singular quest

To get from Point A to Point B,

From dusk to daybreak,

Except they- those brave souls of the dark,

Those valiant stewards of night –

They are on the slow path.