They stand alone-
Holy effigies
Scarred and marred with burning pages,
form a line of solemn sages.
Until by word, by pen or ink,
Instill in souls- depths float and sink
Then nestle down in dress or rags
Speak with tongues I've never had.
They settle deep in rocky crevice or hide high within dark crags
And often speak in native swag
Harboring more than I have known,
Neat as glass so carefully blown.
The colors, shapes, both thick or crepe
Death and life and all between
Footprints mark by vivid dreams
staggered harts in search of streams-
Meandering gypsies in search of bread
Finding ways inside of heads
Inside they strum a corded harp, music sweet, deep and stark
Bearing stories-ancient tales
Their message carried never fails,
A mother's loss, a warrior's gain
Returns as often in the rain.
A hangman's noose when once cut loose can't forever change its truth...
Janelle Gregory
Source edited in Cymera-Iceland
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