I have been anaesthetised by the deep,
like you, and here under a starless sky
I’ve found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep. No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek to greet
with unquiet praise – instead the wretched
souless wraiths have gathered round
with hauter flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.

Cold as winter’s breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates and their shivers
are enough to shake both worlds which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so much, it’s strange, the lending of a foreign hand.

(c) Joshua Biddle 2011

I long to brush away
sun sutured red hair,
to trace dots
on unsheathed shoulders,

to kiss a bare blade,
and hear a soft sigh
or breathless intake of air.
As morning comes I would awake

still dreaming, a carnival
blurr like early morning
reflections across the lake;
I crave to finger beneath,

to move aside a tangled mess
and reveal eyes that stare back,
unimpeded and full of sleep.
I yearn to move closer, my palm

cradling cheek, nose to nose,
to breathe in breath
and finally feel the heat—
to rest in the moment of a dream.

by (c) Joshua Biddle

They will tell you
the best way to see through
darkness is to keep moving.

One step at a time.
Defeat the beast—for eyes
to focus through strobe black

up the spine of an elated
concience, shun shadow
and pluck the feather

of a crow which seeks forgivness.
But residue resides, an offering
able to burn white with light,

hotter and brighter
than eyes can withstand.
And there will be a choice,

sound of caws from altar rafters,
demanding confession,
or redemption—

a spiral that will never be
forgiven nor whispired—seven crows
a secret that never will be told.

by (c) Joshua Biddle