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.