The Pitcher in the Pit

Ah, the clouds, those lucky sheep!
Whence came their silver lining?
Is it the rain these bastards weep,
Or is it the sun that keeps them shining?

Wonder, wonder, and take those dawns
That sit beyond the darkest hours,
Whence the sentry, night or morn
To watch from over the lightless towers?

Questions! Air! Their takers none—
Who questions God and nature’s will?
Nay, none, my prayers are done,
But I have one wish that lingers still.

As I harbour hell at my journey’s orgasm
And marvel unaided on this fall so sheer,
I wish my screams don’t meet a chasm,
But drown instead in this pitcher of beer.

The Wind That Left

The wind, you say, old friend,
The wind that walked athwart my face…
I wonder, yes, now past its end,
I wonder now… I miss its trace…

The stars, you think, were all I saw,
The stars that blithely blinked at me…
And yes, perhaps, that was my flaw,
For now their presence gives me no glee…

Yes, yes, you sound so right, so true,
The wind was why I desired to dream…
It cared, caressed, and never fled from view;
It was me, my faith, and my reason, it seems…

Oh, but this last thing you seem to trust,
This, my friend, you fathom not, and go amiss…
For I knew, was aware, as much as stars, of dust,
And of the wind that left, aloft my last innocent kiss.

Of All But One That Love Be Made...

A flower, if, let it be a lotus;
A song, my dirge, my egress;
A season, then fall—for it ever does;
Or a colour, if, be black, no less.

A flower, if, let it be a lotus
For not the beauty but the span
Of the leaf that floats, below us,
Be my lover, and me, her man.

But a message, if, be it on her breath
A song, my dirge, my egress
To void—the dream of dust and death—
Be she my fatal seductress.

Gold it be, hope it must,
If, being fruitless and frail, it be
A season, then fall—for it ever does—
Be to every twig of every me.

But of all but one that love be made
A zephyr or a zest as He may bless
Be a feeling, if, let it be no shade
Or a colour, if, be black, no less.

The Pilgrims of Shadow

The rising sun shall sights receive
As million smiles, each bright as day
And yet, not one shall bring reprieve
To the ones that sit and silence pray

To them the twinkle of tooth and eye
And that fleeting fill of open hearts
That curve of lip, that eyebrow high
Shall bring a hope that swift departs

Pilgrims all, they sleep in verdant shadow
Wile willing the vital will of the wise
The sun they warm, its worth they know
While waiting, whispering, for its demise

To death, and night’s syrupy inception
These wrinkled minds will rise to fall
At last maintaining His will be done
For in Adam’s sin, sinned we all.

Reflection

There's crimson, though only
In the veins beneath the white
There's a reason, known only
To the ones within his sight

This mirror is just his brain
Baffled, bereft and nearly dead
Reflecting what seems to remain
Battered, not broken yet

His buckling knees look weak
How long before he stalls...
His face, his poise of wood
How long before it falls?

He looks at those eyes
Those veins that rivers run
That face, those knees
And that poise so primly spun

Courage, he thinks, my hands
He looks and they are fists
Raises them both, says fight
And re-enters his world of wists