Dusk upon the brow

When the time it comes

where the life is weighed

the moments all tallied

some bright and some fade,

when the world all sits in lie

and people are scattered away

the heart no longer aglow

no joy in the passing parade,

when dreams are just another day

and the mornings are filled with sigh

then the quill is quietly set aside

and one bids the page, goodbye.

A bleating wry

Signet the little birdie sings

wings a sprawl from windy spring

buds to bloom along the pave

from depth its hearty bring,

to what the day it owes to know

the shine of waxing season

perilous to the jesters trek

footing that knows no reason,

hoof upon the soiled Earth

where sorrow is interceded

casting out to broken hearts

the net is wove and meted.

Strange horizon

I have walked upon the golden roads

leading valleys and hills to dead ends

visions over fallen seas

where cuts have still to mend,

my bloodied feet a wretched set

moving with the breeze

settling onto mountain tops

as big as the smallest peas,

now slumped upon the highest low

the tempest I for to wait

counting out old new bloomed petals

as the day grows ever late.

Through the forest and woods

What is the sound of bottles breaking wine

or the stuff from within ones home we collectively call as mine

cutting loose the drowning crow of crowning rhyme

where fools make for a heavy mountainous climb

trekking through the forest overlooking all the signs

taking all direction from the deaf the dumb and the blind

hoping with sweat of the brow each footing is the line

stumbling upon the bones mayhaps reminiscence will remind

the reason for this journey is “because” yells out the mime

yet everybody knows that the day holds not the time

and also knowing too that naught is worst of crimes.

Gates of reflection

Within the shady grove

near beneath the watery turns

another moment catches

baited hook and twisted wurm,

tis the season of harboring rend

turning all the lifeless leaves

summer nigh upon the grave

where winter has left her cleave,

among the solemn beauty

where trails abrupt the bliss

colors flow the deepest north

heralds gate the fall and abyss.

To what eyes and ears

There’s a void within my song of heart

painting many places muting certain parts,

but it sings as loudly as one may sing

reaching out across the sky

and harmony with its dancing leaps

moving mountains from on high;

causing clouds so stern above

to smile in heaving sighs.


So here it sits my woeful void

gazing down into endless eyes

knowing more than it will lead on

gently guiding me all the wise.

and so another day

Subtle ever flowing

under remnant for the sun

wears a Monday gaudy Tuesday

glittering stardust for the fun,

Wednesday meets at the center

so Thursday may be at ease

leaving Friday on the outer edge

Saturday laughs and sips her tea,

and again we are at Sunday

where rest is all the rage

a week gone out the window

in pursuit of the coming age.