These;
they fade,
days sorely missed.
Occasions,
pages from an age
pummeled
by the galaxies
and displays of violence.
Arrays like hyacinths.
The darkened stain upon
a solar blaze
lost confidence
in context and
contrast.
Uncomforted
by forces
hiding in
the mass around
your core.
Radiance…
convection —
it’s all the same,
second place
to fusion.
Around and up,
in branches twining,
vine and leaf and
winding tendrils creep
to bowers where
her resting lashes lie.
Fingers fumble,
slumbr’ing lovers sigh.
Delightful languors,
pink-tinged morning skies.
Ever slaking,
never wake these eyes.
Ceremonial freak outs
as someone realized
the girl outside gives all,
but it’s a front.
It’s expected, except…
She’s me —
carved out to sell ads
and hate.
She’s me —
except, unexpected…
and mystic.
It ends
with the sound of
sweeping.
These are paths
that children
may not tread.
Straw on skin,
the handles callous
tender palms.
Bristling at
the thought of
his regard.
Silence,
placeholders.
Abstractions last,
tears trailing,
where once
there was
no end.
Numbers bound
round corners.
With Ego —
some division,
With versa,
vice outbidden.
Impulse.
Fall
and darkened leaves,
Fall,
finality — concrete.
A void.
Morning
and squinting eyes.
Mourning
for a wake.
I went for broke
(Full Stop),
I kissed your
gnosis…
It grows, in truth,
and soon
opposes
the lowered knee,
the hand a
ring proposes.
You can gang your own gate
in ways that surge
unbounded by all weight.
A practiced flow,
prismatic in its wake.
Gone.
Abroad we speak,
Abroad we say
the hopes we make.
Mandalas on
your Vanity
must vanish
as you age.
As Fractals chase
your innocence,
the Spirals swarm
with rage.
But when each
Compass pin
has spun
beyond your
current arc,
the Ring will gently
gather in
the wand’rings
of your heart.
Beneath the
spire a shining
conflict, a castle
cracking principle.
Our sister, an
anagram — a shell
of eternity, a laughing
sprite remade.
The forking
paths, the ink-
burned fingers. Devotions.
Wistful play.
It fell
cracking columns,
plinths shifted
free of place.
Backing ‘round corners,
sailing dry straits,
strafing mazes.
You left me turning
left at the wall.
Cheekbones raking earth,
eyes averse,
fingers searching
for a center,
for worth.
Feste's Lute 