Truth can sometimes be seen only by a child’s eye. 




Bitter bite of winter night

finally claws at the wolf in the



Heart of man believes the tale,

vale-scattered, bane-burdened,

mocking him in whispered tones

known only by the wise –

kings and soldiers die alike.




It is here where the wanderer and narrow path meet,

seeking, fearing, craving




A sick-minded slashing

churning and fueling your venom of hate –

And I have bled for your deceit.

You are the enemy loathing your fate –

The pierced Hand has crushed you.


Light-headed head of ale

tipping as the tankard leers

over the edge of the table-top.

Satisfaction never followed

after a hammered utopia.



Eyes in the shadow of a lantern

follow after golden-gleamed twilight.


archer in waiting for the hilltop

grass to rustle ‘neath the out-tricked hart




Where are your people, your title, your throne?

Your home evades you like the breath of dawn.

Yet which is the land that must finally loosen the castaway’s grasp?

Cast among the smoke, yet you wonder who is master –

A king who merely rules the earth must always serve another.


Every hour spent

trying to flee from the storm

keeps my heart from

seeing the prism through

luminescent raindrops.