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.
who clipped the angel’s wings
that he would forever be
the guardian
of this thing called man?
“not I” said the god on high
“my angels fly from such base things,
go ask the devil
for he is man’s advocate”
when asked, the devil smiled
and pointed to the man
“therein lies he who did the deed…
for man himself holds the sway
over gods and angels, and yes…
…devils too”
How many leaves have I seen fall
like pages from a calendar torn away
discarded browning yesterdays
that were once green tomorrows
how many passing glances
forgotten in my mortal dances
with strangers, friends and lovers
have I left unreturned
with that moment’s regret burning
like a cigarette upon my soul?
our incomplete lines
say just as much about us
as finished verses
I turn to cinders
glowing red
deep within her fire
my passions swathed
inside the flames
of our carnal pyre
the fountain sings the saddest song
in tears that fall and fall once more
reflected back upon former glories
days denied in water’s pure
the fountain knows just one song
and sings today as it did back when
lovers wished upon bright futures
this spring sang hopes and dreams back then
but now this song is lost and weary
so many wishes washed away
like marble bright worn round and dreary
to shadows of its former days.
she is sister to the mist
princess of the frost
who in her benevolence
would pay for summer’s loss
in diamonds on the window panes
and pearls upon boughs steeped
her touch is not the death of things
’tis simply time to sleep.
behind the glass
she calls to me
a thousand miles away
across the hills
beyond the sea
she bathed in other days
one in which
the world was gold
and troubles seemed as none
as in this frame
her story’s told
before mine had begun
did he for sport or mischief dance with me
or where his motives born more tenderly
in brambles black his red heart did embrace
the morning sun, and of me he gave chase
between the briars and through the shining leaves
his merry song did sweeten dawn’s first breeze
but once his play was done he was away
and left to me, and I to him, this .. the robin’s day.
dwell not on art for its finesse
cast aside such elegant thoughts
let its power desires undress
and all your painted passions court.
the blighters rock 