Hidden hands, crack the codes of the growing mountains, they howl right back into the face of the storm. Fire in the dirt, ashes in the harvests, the herds have left the fields for the city, the herds have left the fields to smolder and smoke.

Hidden hands plunged deep into the salt of the oceans, brought down from the face of the sky. Cornerstones cast in the forge, hammer pounded, hammer born. Rhythms in the iron, iron in the hammer born.

Hidden hands that sculpt the images that flash behind enchanted eyes, answering the calls, horns that crash against the blackened cliffs. To be the one that stands at the end, to be the one that ends. Crystallized in this moment, to be the one that ends

I've spent one day as a king
Two days as a knave
Three days in the tower
Four days to the grave.

The peasants all gathered to watch my 10 day tumble
They stood dead still and silent
Their opinions plain on their faces.
They didn't eat or drink or sleep in their unending judgments.

I've spent one day as a healer
two days in the plague
Three days with the shovel
Four days filling graves

The ground trembled from the boots of the soldiers
They stood in lines to keep you safe
Shields and guns and bombs at the ready
I wish they were not facing me.

Await Anchor

(basic rhyme scheme, but I like it)

Ever so gently dealt a dead man's hand
Ever so suddenly jumped ship and swam
Chilled to the bone, the wind as my cradle
Rocked to sleep swaddled in filth and in hazel
Waves cresting over empty head left abandoned
My games, my ship, my condemned warmth heavy-handed
Stories told like prayers, as salted as the fishes
Plague doctor's assistants with cancer in their wishes
Quarantine the entire fleet, the rats are all just rabies and teeth
They are the patients of failure, with no patience for failures
Tie away, boys, tie the iron bones to the anchors
The navigator mistook the poison for rum
And now our course is onward to sickness and sun
Carried so gently by death's cool hand
That old iron gray ocean rusted by land
And when that bow breaks, and the iron comes crashing
The rats start feeding the sailors their rations

Let something that is distant keep itself warm with the thoughts of the things close. Mountains fired in the mantle of houses made far and brittle by streets and tress and neighborhoods. Let convergence reign, hesitant touches in the midst of day, blazing sun and sheen of sweat mixing in the writhing of neighborhood's last battles. Cookie cutter ramparts, the crime watch is building engines of siege and peril. Eyes in the sky, eyes in the hedge rows, eyes in the picnics, eyes in the games. We got the permits necessary to hide from the cameras and share ourselves with each other in defiance of the observant. Breathing in the anonymity of grand tracts of skin, explorations lead by tongues and hands.

Let something that is distant keep itself warm with the thoughts of the things close. Mountains fired in the mantle of houses made far and brittle by streets and tress and neighborhoods. Let convergence reign, hesitant touches in the midst of day, blazing sun and sheen of sweat mixing in the writhing of neighborhood's last battles. Cookie cutter ramparts, the crime watch is building engines of siege and peril. Eyes in the sky, eyes in the hedge rows, eyes in the picnics, eyes in the games. We got the permits necessary to hide from the cameras and share ourselves with each other in defiance of the observant. Breathing in the anonymity of grand tracts of skin, explorations lead by tongues and hands.

Horns don't make sense anymore. I am the stuck. The only ghosts that speak to me are made of glow and blank letter faces. It's become the anniversary of my hobbling, the day I forgot how to walk. Introductions have become formalities, it's all going to end one sided. And every time I turn to say something to someone it ends in a complete circle. You said those things to me once. And the laughter carried to the stars. Now it's lost. All just lost.

Entrenched. Knife sharp. Mask tight. No man's land a scant 8 inches of Berber battleground. Facing empires of baggage and flames. Waiting for the horn to call, so I can take my freshly bleached flag, add my tail to the space between my legs and hash out a new peace accord. Seconds pass like hours. The crushing silence of only accents and revolutions per minute. The key is in my hand. A funny little thing that looks like it couldn't unlock a thing.