Chicken friend happy simple but

Good makes life ok things are special

Living things everything are special

Life is important and they feel us

Life shouldn't be sad doom

And gloom life is a gift for every

Thing hanging in the universe

By impossible means on a dirt orb

Imagine that magic so fragile so unique

A gift life is a gift.

My God I will stand here

My God I will protect

My God battle not begun

My God the hurt

The sorrow

The pain

My God

Oh my God

What is happening

Do you have the ability

To understand

My God

Poor people

Save them

From death

From pain

From suffering

My God

A war

Here

For souls

Choose a side

Good vs Evil

Oh my God

Oh my God

I was made a savage in a savage land

Made so by fire through fire

And blood

Born into blood and violence

I have become that those who savaged me

When I was a child I loved was full of love

And into adulthood early

Then a savage was born after

After blood and violence

After death

After clinging to life

Mashed glass

Broken steel

Chased by knives

Ruined by fist

I was made a savage

Made a savage

But my hearts still there

Inside

Though I am now a savage

Born into a savage land

I was made into a savage in a savage land.

And did it matter what I wrote in the end?

Truth

The Way

And the Light

And who would believe me?

You

You would.

What would you trade your soul for?

Or do you believe the soul is sacred?

Like the moon

Like the river

Like the very stars above

No price for soul

No price

Did you trade it for money?

sex

drugs

No price for soul

Have you traded it already?

No you have not

It is untradable

It is yours

Always will be.

Amongst concrete and steel a nest built for chicks born in Spring overrides mans insistence to ruin this world

Ice that makes life dormant cracks and melts to have reeds sway in running water again

Memories of your blood in Springtime when your world was new and eternity was yours forever.

What the fuck was I doing here? Living on the side of a highway on borrowed land on another man's land was there a better life? There must be somewhere pushed from pillar to post all my life so many houses to live in so many lives lived who was I back then?

A lover a fighter and adventurer a poet a painter a seeker.

What am I now? a writer a son the good son? Always the good son.

How would we end up? Us so fragile and broken yet searching for peace and light.

Was the fight over? No not in this life not in this world not ever.

As long as you give it a go give it a shot be true that was what mattered.

Pass fail not the point as long as you tried.

On the bright cut shotgun morning my car left the rain soaked road slick bitumen making short work of rubber on the road.

The Datsun slewed sideways completely as it snapped off fern trees like a scythe and I braced for impact there had to be an impact eventually.

Then it came at the base of a towering Mountain Ash in a violent sound of twisting metal and shattering glass.

I was hearing a sound many would have heard in a car accident before death. The screech of contorted metal and the pure force it took to bend a car into a horseshoe.

I was twenty two and I could live forever or so I had thought many times back then.

My body was by pure force thrown sideways as the car found an immovable object. Out of the seatbelt and my head into the smashed metal and glass and tree.

I felt the warm blood come from my forehead and down the side of my face.

After the accident a lady I had known said I was flying with angels.

Damn right I was and the memory still triggers something in me thirty years later. On that bright cut shotgun morning.

So I sat under the old apple tree looking at some strange curved thing like something out of H.R Gigers fevered dream.

The trunk was hollow while the branches bore apples still of the old crab apple variety no good for eating maybe cider.

A bottle of red I found fit perfectly in a hollow branch like it was made for it as the branches gave me shade from the heat of the sun.

I craned my neck and the branches brushed it giving me comfort like an old friend.

This was all I needed right here right now as I sat for hours and hours by the gnarled trunk riddled with holes and still living an ancient thing.

A beautiful thing must have been over a hundred years old.

If it had words to speak perhaps I heard them if I listened carefully not whispers or voice but a communion somewhere in my mind in the hidden places where thought goes.

All sorts of thought entered my mind as I wondered if trees had thought did they think the same as us I sat silently giving my offering to the old tree.

On this strange summers day a thinking.

Lit burn burn burn lit

Lit burn burn burn lit

Last writing lit

Lost words burn burn

Phoenixes rise from ashes

Not these words now

Burn burn burn

Lit all burned gone.