The thin line

we'll climb
the thin line
of smoke
that rises
from out
of the waves
it will lead
us into the
starry dark
where distance
has forgotten
both speed
and distance
so we can
peer into
the past

we'll climb
the thin line
of smoke
that rises
from out
of the waters
which have
given us this
chance to find
ourselves and
each other
when we
have collided
with the matter
in hands
that have held us
beaten us
and led us
to ourselves and
each other

we'll climb
the thin line
of smoke
that rises
from our
burning bodies
the fires
that have
quenched
the ocean's
salty thirst
our blood
that has
dowsed the
warring flames
within stampeding
hearts and souls

Magissa

she walks columned lands
listening to the brittle fingers
of her friends snap and break
under the weight of her feet

the cold touches not her skin
as it has already embraced
the faint beating of her heart

her hair is a continuous current
with the bitter breezes of night
when she lifts from the earth
to soar through the dark air

the cold touches not her face
as it has already taken hold of
the faint memories of her mind

they come to her for help
when their prayers are empty
they bar her with iron chains
when their guilt is thirsty

the flame touches not her bones
as she is a stream in the woods
the tears from an infant's eye



- for Dixie

The chest

these things were taken
by unseen hands
they always mention
what was given up
an offering
the sacrifice
but these things
were taken
and they'll never
be again
the memory of
sound sleeping
and sane thinking
and being pleased
by being at ease
no more
someone has
slammed shut
that door
as all reasoning
has flowed away
all peace sits in rot
logic in ruin and decay
images can't be unseen
knowledge is always known
and what is kept locked
in the chest in the room
at the end of the hall
up the stairs of the house
at the end of the road
no one travels any longer
should have always
stayed locked in the chest
in the room in the house
at the end of the road
no one travels any longer

Silent friend

silence was a
companion he sought
and the constant
conversation he found
in the quiet pacified
the biting storm
that raged in his mind
he hated his voice
finding the words
he found regretful
at best and his speech
was a journey down
a root laced pebble
strewn crooked path

the winged imp on
his left shoulder
whispered into
people's ears
convincing them
he held himself
higher than them
in his silent state
while the feathered
fiend on his right
whispered into
his own ear
convincing him
he had nothing
worth to say

but he soon
started speaking
more and more to
his silent friend
and did his very
own convincing
leaving the two
whispering devils
to starve without him
while he drifted
away so deathly quiet

First frost

the bricks still emit
the scorch of summer sun
in their burnt hue
embers of bonfires
the same that still
burn in the night sky
licking and savoring the dark
the same dark
that creeps into these hours
when solar rays drown
in the distant earthly horizon
surrendering to the cold
the same cold
that creeps into the bones
of withered elder trees
and silken youthful blooms
that linger until the bitter kiss
the same kiss
that stills the pulse
silents the arias in the air
and blackens and grays
these autumn days

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