I have, I am, nothing more.

Than a disappointed plush doll,

Rejected by sober and

Celebrating morticians all.

They who lie in silent cemeteries,

While ragged trees stand.

They die amongst the graying skies.

My rejection, I have come to find,

Is how metal chains and black feathers,

Looking so soft and slender,

Embedded in a silken corset,

Do not please the eye,

When strapped upon an overstuffed doll.



I have, I am, nothing more.

Than the very illustration of the rise and fall.

Irish hills,

The winding wind that never finds

Too many hearts to chill.

They depict a child’s version of my times,

They seem so explicit,

Involved with everything mothers hide.

Swaying and speaking out,

Getting high and coming down,

Losing what I never found,

And always searching for directions how,

I could sink into the greenest ground.



I have, I am, nothing more.

Than a child now.

After all my swirling chills,

After all my Irish hills,

Taking my life and making me wish for the very death of day.

I am reborn.

I live what life remains with me in full quality and play.

Twirl and spin, I call it dance, and perform with all the fey

They surround me with nothing less than

The brightest light of day.

It will be lifted with my youth, when I choose,

To grow up again, and

I won’t go back to the rotting dead,

Sleeping in their dirty beds,

Rejecting those who live and then,

But, skeletons aren’t glorified.

They are weak.

The dead,

They have no control.