Lying and Dying

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

UnWanted Guest

More to a vestibule for the dying

More to the communion

More of obsession’s admiration

More to those who fly

More to those who do not ponder why

Over and above…I keep the gods lowercase

Over and above, the stone dead and gone

Less of a willingness to comply

Less of puppy’s in the window

Less photographic harmony

Less bouncing joy on bended knee

“Let me go”  I say, more or less

There is a quiet place, more or less

Oh, sporadic the occasions of an unwanted guest

gravestone pitch

 

 

Dust on the Road

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I do not dare…look back.

However, I am drawn to a sudden, slight, turn of fate.

A quick hesitation, powerful…and, distant like an ill flying kite.

There are seconds to oblivion…there I am…a dream.

No longer of this earth.

My sight no longer seen.

lightness 2A mistress to control…

No attempt, no mystery, no exit in which to flee.

Threaded, hallow, posts demeaned by metal thoroughfares.

Soon I could be a speeding holy ghost.

Nothing but a steel skid mark host.

 

 

Late Night Calls

A crippling glance had been the commencement to the conclusion.

All roads must lead somewhere.

Every waterfall brings disrepair.

Fate has an ironic tone…painting by number.

Elaborating in the future.

And,

with eloquence…bleeding into the past.

Leaving behind a present that fades fast.

In all manner of ability some find a way to get back home.

Limping, crawling, scratching.

Many have been born to die.

Figments of imagination.

Beings…not being.

In the corners of the onlooker’s eye.

 

 

To The Past

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Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,

O kingdom of the past!

There lie the bygone ages in their palls,

Guarded by shadows vast;

There all is hushed and breathless,

Save when some image of old error falls

Earth worshiped once as deathless.

And, if sometimes a moaning wander-eth

From out thy desolate halls,

If some grim shadow of thy living death

Across our sunshine falls

And, scares the world to error,

The eternal life sends forth melodious breath

To chase the misty terror.

  • Lowell river-6