She is not a Rose

Neither rose

Petal or bud

Can be

As she –

The woman

Of the water

Who levels

Out the unbearable

Sound

With a

Tranquil moment

 

Devil-shine

Reality

Asphyxiates

All

As lightning

Fixates the eyes

Burning, blinding –

Bleaching

In a moment

The day in

Devil-shine

 

The Lover’s Leap Lies in Pieces

sonnets of souls

separated by space –

sound out

in that place

between

where the

breath of angels

cool in divine

circumstance

and timekeepers

stand reticent

by gates

holding back fate

reluctantly

to

people parted

by

blunt

location

In Bones We Trust

In this ancient

Ruin we trust

In this relic

Of an age not

Ours –

Where shining men

Hid behind doors

And ruled

Against

Martyrs

Who could not

Argue

Or take flight

Against

Hamlet’s plight

—-

The age is past,

But the seeping

Sinister spirit

Continues

To fester

To the bone.

Paint Her Black

Precious pain

Paints her

Portraits

In black –

All her landscapes

Are flooded…

Men are alone

With her

And walk with her

In solidarity

Of solitude.

The Heart-breaker

Cryptic crafted

Beating heart

Of mortal man –

What fragile

Construct,

Felled by a

Breath –

A live death

Stitched to an

Ego

In perpetual

Caricature.

 

The Skeleton

Sea of Silence

Life Still

A wasted life is wasted once –

Once only

And in that one

Rash ramble

Along dirt-dust

Track repeated

Man peers

Over past precipice

What lay ahead

Now behind

Broken lens.

Time Clandestine

Time takes stock

Of each clandestine capture

On the film that memory makes

To then turn

Thoughts in transit

To gold and dust…

Rhyme and Reason

What a bore

To see the world

As it is —

 

The raw reality of the rationalist;

A pale counterpart

To the poetic perception

Of the vagabond.

Dead Man Sitting

The dying

Sit on

Dead dendron decked

Dedicated to past dying –

Presently dead…