Come wayward to this place without sorrow
On a borderland between love and apathy
We know you are lost—all who come here are lost
And stay when they no longer wish to be found.
Death passes through on a journey to other lands
But never stops here to rest.
An old friend points the way beyond the gate
The moonlight road rolling away to a broken horizon
That we mend each morning with silk and knitting needles
Only to watch it burned and battered by the new day.
Here in this place live shadows detached from their owners
Floating in water that turns them dappled, golden, beautiful
Of a deep lake filled with a sunken world
The original, abandoned and left to the waters
On whose shore grows a tree with branches of fire.
The other day I was asked what inspires me, and wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. So, I want to pass along the question—what inspires you?