Blanket Maker
An army marches.
It is the colour of dusty dollar bills uncrumpling against a tombstone sky.
We barricade. We weaponize. We camouflage.
Strange tank stampedes.
Like a hundred moons, the women rise and dare the tank to eclipse.
It rumbles.
The eldest moon, in rippling threads, lays hands upon the tank.
Metal beast deflates.
Camo fades to checkers of copper and white.
And as if it were a mere blanket, the flattened tank is folded by the elder.
She sets it lovingly aside.
In this way the war is won.
Skyshakers
Love.
Old lyrics.
Dance the storm.
Learn to suffer thunderous things.
Clouds collapse and sun spears shine.
Reclaim the world.
Kiss the sky.
"See the lights!" she crises.
Above golden hour, rainbow serpent rays.
"How do you say it, in your way?"
"They shake the sky," I reply
Before the last of days.
Shining
She says goodbye to the beasts in her mind and flays away the rags.
Bare as the sun, from the white pines she comes, falls into a sea of red flags.
No eyes cast sight on the naked and bright shape of her soft, silent dance.
I see the glimmer of her raw ghostly figure as it breezes my way by sheer chance.
She whirls along to some intrinsic song only meant for the fresh and the free.
Swiftly discover that I desperately love her. Wish that her shining was me.
