chibiyin

But in these bones
that you feel move
the weight of a hundred lives
a thousand lies
sunk to the marrow
a beating heart does little good
inside those echoes
It's mostly the night
when pockets of air are perfect
when you don't have to think—
yet thinking is all you do
when the world turns dark
and everything sleeps but you
and those bones
That thing was such a tangled mess
but if you work your heart
and fingers raw
all the knots come out
like drawing poison from blood
those bones are brittle
that heartbeat is shallow
With haggard letters
we must greet the dawn

The light cast a coolness over everything. It was past dawn, but not yet late in the morning, and the air was pure, clean, and as of yet unsullied by the warmth of the sun. It was a quality only autumn and the mountains held, and it had long been his favourite time of day. The trees had only just started to turn, and created a patchwork of greens, yellows, oranges, and reds through the valley and up the mountainsides. His eldest sons always tried to insist he keep an escort when he left the old stronghold, but he never listened to them. The day he couldn't defend himself, he told them, was the day he was dead.
So, he rode alone along the winding, narrow trail, giving his horse her head to go at her own pace. He was in no rush; the one he went to visit wouldn't be going anywhere. He liked to look about him at his provinces as he rode, taking time to absorb the beauty of it all over again. He came this way at least once a week, his heart unable to stay away from her for long. They used t

When the work of day is done
the sun has set and night is come
then the hardest time's begun
the hours I dream of her
The sunlight dancing in her hair
the way her fingers showed she cared
though her beauty could compare
I own, but she was mine
But then she turned her back on me
and went with him beyond the sea
though I know it will not be
oh, how I dream of her
And when the moon is rising high
I'll take my chisel and my eye
and carve her likeness from the stones
no longer will I live alone
Her eyes I'll carve from greenest gem
her lips from rubies set therein
from rose quartz I will shape her skin
I wish for love in vain
When the morning light comes in
and gives the stones a living tint
my heart's blood freckling her face
I chipped my life away

The canyon had been asleep for countless ages. Light never toughed its bottom reaches, the jagged rock floor to which few creatures clung. It had never known night from day, and years passed by without its notice. Rain came seldom, staying on the dusty, dark earth only hours at a time. After a while, the creatures that used to give the canyon some small claim to life vanished. All still, the cracked earth slept.
Centuries of dust and wind made up its dreams, with no variations otherwise. It could have gone on like that forever without a care. Then came the upheaval.
It started deep. A low vibration, a whisper of a rumble. The canyon did not awake. Still its rocky outcroppings nearly touched each other on either side, lover's lips reaching for one another, just out of grasp. The rumble did not go away. It did not slip quietly by, unheeded, like the wind and dust and animal bones. It demanded attention, growing ever louder, ever closer. With a quick and sudden jerk, the earth moved and c

Don't yearn after the moon. She is cold and uncaring, and only reflects light given off by others. She has no self-brightness, no illumination from within. In fact, she hides her face regularly—only partially at first, almost a tease or a beckoning for you to look harder at her—then completely. Do not let this fool you, for she uses supposed mystery to try and seduce you, when she is simply hiding her true face from you, when she is only turning her back on you. She returns to show herself again when and only when it is at her convenience.
That is why the wolves howl at her—they do not lust for her, for they have long since known of her illusions and selfish nature. They cry out their dismay that she can trick so many into believing and trusting and loving her masks. The wolves are the only ones that truly see her for what she is. Do not aim for the moon, they howl, aim above and beyond, to the stars. The stars are where true mysteries and inner illumin