You played tunes with the hammer,
a mad harmony of breaking concrete,
beating your temper with clockwork precision.
Your eyes, empty of light, torturing the black mass
of your restless mind. And suddenly you would stop;
we tip-toed past your fingertips, over burning rocks,
carrying our fear to beyond your grasp.
This was our magic, to be invisible,
to scream without sound. We deceived you;
our power was greater than yours. We climbed
above your head. Only gravity pulled us back,
young birds falling to ground, bleeding through the air,
locking our wings as we pretended to fly.
Rowland Hughes ©