Through lone night I wait, till I wave at the first rays of this thirtieth day.

I trace my footsteps in garden of vines—

Years of mine are bright hued flowers bleached with salt water;

Black summer and white winter.

A sinner with April of colours and October of warmth, I have left these behind.

Heavy is the air interspersed with rust-

A jagged little knife of hopes and fears

Glistening weak in the heat of august.

Whispers to etch my battle scars and broken heart

And turn this green-born and green souled red with blood-

Splintered woods and shards bring me to the ground.

I am the multitude and the multitude is me.

Free as much as I think I am I search for a place to call home.

Spent a lifetime alone and the older I get the more I am afraid—

Fear, the occasional surprise that rocks my boat; time, the wind on my sails—

The shore’s out of sight, I spread my arms open wide—

Let me drown in this black summer rain.

The dimming sun heralds the twilight—

It greets me like a long lost friend— but in the pieces of my heart, it is the lover I wait for.

But this thirtieth day sees no twilight; perhaps the battle’s long and weary

And if Death comes, the stars and the moon shall tell my story to you, the lover I long for.

So this thirtieth day I leave no blood, no trace, no pain, no blues. No me.

Times where words no longer matter the dark of silence embraces me.

For this thirtieth day I leave no words

So I may rest in the arms of the lover I love.

In your silent mouth may I learn to find peace,

Lest Death comes early and my universe slides away from the lover I wait

Returning without the armour

The Northern Star guiding you, the lover who can never be mine,

To me where I lay to rest.