My hands to no
Swords and stratagems
For sustenance,
I engorge on silence;
And for days there is no contact
With the outside world.
I straddle slowly, closely the winding banks of rivers, the mirror of my own veins.
I avoid the hinterlands, rife of noises and competitions;
And in the
Mist one morning
Will laugh at a distant madness.
We are never more than walking distance or a few miles away from the ocean,
looming large,
mysterious,
fearsome,
just beyond the hills,
between
the canopies of trees,
the blue
backdrop to every act of living.
At night
her soft breaths lull us into the pleasant realms of dreams,
though now to free upon the remnants of all that has gone missing;
but
this is not farewell,
only
the sea again becoming sea
Before I pull the curtains,
How odd that the birds are silent.
And you carry upon your breath
the demise of
A friend
Of a friend
Of a friend.
And it is a mirror,
A tightrope of sadness
& ecstasy,
This beautiful, fleeting intangibility
There in season,
Sky as blue as hope,
Ripened leaves red before falling,
One anteroom of darkness,
another of light,
I dilemma’d in dreams between
But saw her beauty on the other side
You were an axe against
the silence,
open mouthed
and railing,
I heard you once at 4am,
until the rushing wave of darkness
came back to
swallow you
Undifferentiated streams.
One grey day melds into another.
To swim against numbness.
A bold flame to give one’s heart to.
A tree with gold coins for leaves.
A crow,
a crude bird,
he drowns out
their dainty voices,
betrays her
tender kisses
with coarse winds
that
travel back the
dark hollows from his
once delighted soul
