Ashes & Dust

Its dark out here among the seeds

where the Earth is pressing down

I try to grow above the weeds

but the reign is pound for pound,

the time is ripe for fertile fruit

and the warmth it comes in coos

here the darkness is a deafening chill

where shadows feed on the loose,

but none too soon the weight is lifted

and the eye begins to pree

the subtle veil shifting

exposing rays of reverie.

The wake

And the quiet cry of my bleeding heart

wayward across the open fields

where the word of predators feast

on the flesh of tender yield,

my aching quill does scratch the soul

in its ever searching pray

as a river through an open wound

throwing life’s blood upon the day,

and bent has brought its whimsy

the torment bound in stray

slicing eyes that they may see

among the platters of decay.

The bards weave

A kiss as sweet as any love

a maiden on the winds and sea

through the darkness as a lighted way

to be whatever, whatever will be,

her heart a sail from distant shores

from here to and afar

where minstrels sing of nothing

and their mugs are filled with stars.


Twas the horrific of the scream

that set the place aflame

the crying little tears

that sprouted from the pain,

eyes a blood red stain

spilling through the vein

nails broke in counts of ten

crack the neck and strain,

the walls would clamor

through out the night

whimpering in darkened tones

at the calling of sweet Mandy

down the halls where she would roam.

Tightrope falling

Where are all the eyes

my head beneath my feat

a handful pleading ways

iron filling the street,

emotions are a button

hearts on every sleeve

persuasion on the cap

arriving just to leave.

Cry of the loony bird

It was the sleep that seeped so steady within,

allowing the night to see.

As darkness filled the vessel,

all light would seem to dream;

breathing mounting one to another,

gasping for residue,

anything that it may grasp,

over a heaping,

clamoring view.

The dark would make its landing,

over all the waking thought,

preying upon the vitals,

leading on to desperate thought;

alas, there is no way,

as the way upon the senses,

confusing all that would be,

in the open simulation.

Walking along their ready made,

accepting empty truths,

just fitting in so neatly,

among the other rues.