In the midst of thunderous gale.
A noose is loosened.
Dislodged from a ceiling.
Where the lead is chipping and peeling.
Stones, previously marked with similar name.
A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.
The obliged have always wondered.
Can you cremate pain?
Thus, hold onto dignified days,
and their remains.
A participant of curiosity’s oddity.
I, too, have queried…
What remains of the day?
And,
All the protocol that stands in the way.
In the midst of thunderous gale.
A noose is loosened.
Dislodged from a ceiling.
Where the lead is chipping and peeling.
Stones, previously marked with similar name.
A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.
The obliged have always wondered.
Can you cremate pain?
Thus, hold onto dignified days,
and their remains.
A participant of curiosity’s oddity.
I, too, have queried…
What remains of the day?
And,
All the protocol that stands in the way.
They say, there is a ghost in every house. And, if we make peace with it. IT will remain quiet.
-Vietnamese Proverb
These pillars seemingly in the way.
Built on purpose.
Layered out in a definitive service.
To this restless soul,
it appears as a shelter without a circus.
So, well-traveled traveler,
What do these markers matter?
Earthed centuries,
past cast caskets,
campfire stories,
fading fast.
Indeed a tell-tale sign to history’s androgynous mask.
A sometime headstone’s snippet of sage advice…
whilst strolling down memory lane.
Vacancy, granite posts, and, monochrome plains.
The dead tell no lies.
The dead have nothing to hide.
Should I look forever…
or,
does it even matter.
Lazily, leaving the dead…
where they belong.
Searching for answers…bloodline long.
Again, another, swan song.
The air I breathe…
had been,
the air…
you breathe.
Nothing more than stone pillars of deceit.
Cannot turn back now.
Over underpasses,
blank faces of autonomous cases.
In between the yellow lines…
nothing but life by design.
Hostages have claimed desolation and reservation.
We are, you and I…
birds of a feather in poetic procrastination.
Mercy and misery
Common cousins
baptized in the brook…
chapters to a closed book.
Gripped and stripped at the picket fence.
I found you, as the day, you had left.
Named but nameless
Victim but witness.
I had hoped to be impressed.
Elizabeth, ‘I hear you calling but I can’t come out today.’
Speechless, before me you lay
Yet, I have found nothing is what I should say.
So, a stone has been found…
and,
by blood we will be bound.
Strange, as the earth conforms to my dismay
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
as the story goes,
I will have come this far to…not know.
To not know what happened down below.
To not know what happened down below.
Letting bloodlines go
Letting bloodlines go in order to revive.
Odd, it is the dead who remind us,
we are alive.
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