My hands to no
Swords and stratagems
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,
just beyond the hills,
the canopies of trees,
backdrop to every act of living.
her soft breaths lull us into the pleasant realms of dreams,
though now to free upon the remnants of all that has gone missing;
this is not farewell,
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
Of a friend
Of a friend.
And it is a mirror,
A tightrope of sadness
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
I heard you once at 4am,
until the rushing wave of darkness
came back to
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.