Counting

counting
my breaths
or rather my unbreaths
those which I hold
inside
or outside
upon the cold glass
which seperates me
from the universe.

Bliss

how should mere words impart the dawn?
that release from night’s surreal kiss
which though blesses us with its domain
cannot compare with morning’s bliss
tinting dark shadows with its gold
and gentle touch that stirs the soul
into this vibrant gallery
of sight and sound and fragrance whole

Mortem Artis

now set aside the golden lyre
forgot the pointed quill
the canvas stretched remains unspoiled
the wheel it sits quite still
no strings to sing a lover’s song
no ink a heart to spill
colours crack upon the wood
as art requires life’s skill
dust has gathered on the dreams
that fuelled his ballad’s fill
the muse has left the vacant form
no more to drive his will.

Such Dead Stars

in the black between the lights
that distant shine on our desires
are darkened chasms hid from night
where stars once burned in golden fires
yet they are but ash from scattered flames
which on eternal winds have strayed
and this detritus has us stained
for from such dead stars are we made.

Reminiscing

he is now gone
like the swan
upon which
his memory
of summers past
hung,
all is now black water
under fenced off bridges
where neither the living
nor the dead
may walk,

unclear reminiscences
of broken white feathers
floating unfulfilled wishes
on ornate marble ponds
into which
pennies were cast

Lines still incomplete

he yearned to touch her silken skin
to feel the velvet warmth within
his eyes would gaze upon her form
allowing satin passions born
which no command could contravene
before desires had passed between

A Darkness

I feel a weathered darkness come
cold and without succour born
from its clouds I cannot run
as any hope is from me torn
by winds that blow of deep despair
and in its hails of hopelessness
at body and of mind it tears
to leave the soul with emptiness

shine not here the light of morn
better it had never dawned
and that I knew not any peace
save eternity’s release.

The Dark Butterfly

who is this butterfly
strapped in black lace
delicately painted
so carefully bound
that even the sky
whose kingdom she graces
is not displaced
by her gossamer sounds.

Strands

this restless mind of man meanders
spinning silken strand striations
beyond the flesh and bone had formed
and in this web of situations
is captured lust and love and hate
contained in unsaid conversations
in lost desires un-communicated
for mortal souls have reservations
and cannot hold all threads in hand
whether conscious or unplanned.

Hope’s Breath

this breath is mine for just a while
but what comes of its breathing
surrounding us in the sorrowed sighs
of lives which pass us fleeting.

each holds within impermanence
the light hopes of the brighter dawn
that despite all, benevolence
will counter darkness ‘fore the morn.