Demon wings

the remains of the rain
reflect the somber eve
after a day of gray
my face ebbs in ripples
as filtered light ponders
the expression on my face
I am only halfway here
I am merely halfway there
as liquid draws the line
and darkness draws the soul
I've hungered for the light
to lead me off into the night
but it keeps me lingering
in the shallow dull twilight
the dark can take my soul
into the depths of its cave
but it feeds me just enough
to save me from the grave
the puddles mimic pain
a numbing bitter pill
the loss of demon wings
no halo beyond the veil

Return ticket

it was something booked
long ago
probably with the first breath
in his lungs
which is why it's difficult now
to let go
because it was forgotten about
after all this time
but reminders come back up
to flag us down
and let us know when
it's time to let go
when breaths become less
and hearts grow too big
and bones are too full of life
and looks are now somber
when they weren't
only a week or two ago
during that time
when we had forgotten
when we didn't know
that life is booked with
a return ticket
and departure can be
so much sooner
than we know

Affliction

these halls stall me
it's difficult to pass
as my words should be
my steps
but the words
are pigeons
flying away
from this pedestrian
and I see them
settle and coo
further down the corridor
but if I approach them
I lose them
as they take flight
once again

Melting suns

on the aching
worn branches
where gold finches still dance
to pluck a seed or two
and monarchs sail pass
swallowtails filling their coffers
with rich nectar drink
melts faces of the sun
in all their dripping glory
whether they are worn wax
receding from the flame
so ravenous for a wick
or better the oils slathered
on clowns that have had their day
the colors do run as Hades
pulls the fair colors of Persephone
down into his dark empty pits

Word

the writer becomes
the words written
the page the writer's flesh
the ink the writer's blood
the quill the writer's life
that pierces the flesh
and draws the blood
across the blank plain
of the writer's existence
the narrative the writer's mind
exposed from the depths
each novel a mere chapter
each poetic verse a mere breath
exposed from the depths
that long for light
that beg for the writer to write