Published in


For Lovers Made Soldiers

“It is still the greatest, the roomiest part of the world, although spatially the smallest, this kingdom of love in which we can all be landholders without the need of one’s personal property crowding another’s. Yes, rather it extends another’s holdings. On the other hand, in the kingdom of anger and hate — how small it is in its egotistic isolation and how great the space it demands — the whole world is not spacious enough; this kingdom has no room for others.” Soren Kierkegaard

A hawk catches my eye and sits back and waits, stately on its doric perch.
It is beautiful like statues are beautiful, and seems to threaten nothing
in stillness. But with a swift turn of its head, it spies a meal, becomes
the bird of prey. Yet still he watches and waits, and now the beast hasn’t moved for an hour at least. I’d like to shoot and rearrange the pecking order,
but only with Cupid’s arrow — if I could steal such a weapon away.

We are lonely together, you and I, holding these two candles
out before us in St. Michael’s. He comes bearing unintelligible words like
a friar with an ampoule, but where is his sword? A drum beats in the back
of your mind, I know, as it beats in mine. Yet we kneel two-by-two and hold our heads high, making our own silence proud and unafraid

even if it is not so.
We have all we need, music none but us can hear. What can it mean, a line drawn in sand? Love, take up arms, lean on me. Let us not fall asleep tonight.

It is cold out and somewhere a green lady cries for her own acquiescence, she throws dumb rafts from the safety of a free harbor, missing the harsh winds
snapping at the heart of her torch. The sacred rites have changed and vampires need no invitations. But this is only somewhere, and for now she can’t know the choices we must make when tomorrow comes.

we will lay back in a field of sunflowers that bloomed from the guts of hell, refusing to die, and the nightingales will cheer us, and the world will know us by our true name.

Heliotropists follow the sun’s path, and when she falls they do not shrink, but lie in wait to see her again. A wedding bed of immortal flowers, Joan of Arc crowning victors at sunrise for their valor, a tower falling in reverse, lights shining on the Dnieper River. These are the things I wish for you, unimaginable as they are here

where my hawk swoops down for the kill and I jump to see what innocent creature he’s chosen for his feast. In dreams I feel the lacerations, but upon waking, see I’m only at my window and without wounds.

Photo by author



Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Taylor Moran

Taylor Moran

Writer. Poetry and music addict.