Whence Dawn Mists Rise




Title art by Angie Wright. Click image to visit her studio.




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Sticks and stones
They break my bones
While words of sever hurt them
Flowers wilt deprived the lilt of light and air preserving them
Should this be my burden
Then I bear such weight
Anticipate the curdled hate which percolates beneath the grate of those deemed to determinate a fate in name of lies
Look deep into these eyes of mine
You’ll see no places left to hide
Not a single secret left residing
May not always speak my mind
Howbeit, mine is open book for those inclined to read it
Beggars, fools and thieves aside
I’ll readily bequeath it
Do with such precisely as you see fit
Keep it in a locket and retrieve it from your pocket
Every time your eyes slip slide within romanticizing sockets
Cannot stop the tide of blind revulsion in my wake
Convulsions of an ultimately dissatisfying sake
Gratifying only in the showy coup de grâce
So little do they know of me
Appreciate the deepness of my scars
Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But they cannot deny a soul rejoicing in recline of timeless stars
A truth is only actual when we know it in our hearts
I know the truth
Not that assumed by rumours speculating
Self-sustaining tumours of delusional gesticulating
Holding onto inconclusive skewed proof authenticating
Waiting for the ideal time to pulverize the plaything
Decimating ties in less than kind
Leading blind campaign devised to edify through hostile flight
Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But may wish to refrain from claiming bragging rights
For only I am qualified in testifying truth within my eyes
As each vile vial of hatred comes to light
I shall stand in pride of place
Remaining ever dignified
I know my mind
I know my soul
Of where it bids incline
I know the truth
I know the lies
The toxins they confide
Look deep into these eyes of mine
You’ll see there are no secrets left to hide
You’ll realize I sleep at night
And wake with widened eyes as dawn mists rise
For I am not the monster of a fable so distastefully contrived
Stable are the scales of justice, liberty and hope
For sticks and stones
Make ramparts of the bones
While those comprising words of sever may not ever find their way back home
I only pray they make it so
Find peace and piece of calm
Should that make me a martyr then hereafter I shall bleed from open palms
Leave it to the front line calling arms
For they shall be the very first to fall upon their swords in coup de grâce
If only they would ask the questions burning in advance
Then sticks and stones would not dethrone the everlasting token of their hearts
Broken bones aside
I’m feeling fine
My only wish to spread belief and light
My only care to dare to kiss lips of hope goodnight
For I know they will still be there in pride of place
Whence faithful dawn mists rise




Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill





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