Moons ago

we were mountain children;

offspring of time and

fields of warring blood.

We lived in the smell of

pine and the dusts

of egyptian triumphs and greecian tradgedies,

catalysted by the screams

of the chained impossibilities;

taken from the innocent voices-

songbirds in the cages.

We were the diamonds

now dirtied by the muds of childhood

in the valley of summer past.

We were the quilts sewn by laughter

under the stars and next to the firefly jars

on the rocking chair made of wooden corpses,

splintering into the core of thought,

life dissapearing like breath on a mirror.

We were the mountain children,

offspring of time and warring blood

and now we are the musicbox of sanguine sunsets

singing ad infinitum, the sorrows of

the aging pasts.