5-7-5 (take five-hundred-and-thirty-one : rapture)

this is the rapture
“la petite mort” say the French
I yearn for such deaths

Scars

the trees bare the scars
of a thousand winter nights
cut deep in their flesh

Mausoleum for a Butterfly

among the briar and ivy wild
the cold stone of a lonely child
sadness untempered by the years
in solitude’s eternal tears
beneath this faded finery
the earth serves as her nursery
but no sunshine lights her face
no laughter rings around this place
just silence save wildflower’s sighs
that they shall see no butterflies

Brahms

A demon’s fire ring in the forest
as these passioned stories told
sensations heightened in the flames
only the devil’s fingers hold
midsummer air dry stokes the fires
soon the woods themselves ablaze
and the madness in crecendo
seems it could the whole world raze.

5-7-5 (take five-hundred-and-thirty : harp)

I wake to harp strings
played by the unseen fingers
of the morning breeze

Dream

the dream exploded
into colours velvet red
I could almost taste

shadowplay

let our shadows touch
in the anticipation
our bodies follow

Cathedral

in summertime’s green cathedrals
hid from the watchful sky
we took our leave from life’s concerns
and made love by the by
upon the verdant forest floor
you held me deep inside
until it seemed summer was o’er
and autumn’s heavens cried.

Charged (unfinished)

the angry heaven burned away
in flashes silver bright
a whip cracked on the world today
and burned the earth alight

5-7-5 (take five-hundred-and-twenty-nine : quiet)

in this quiet hour
I am haunted by the words
always left unsaid