3. making historyhe lies beneath charcoal skies,
peering out through clouding eyes.
the stars are fading,
though whether this is a result of
withering sight or choking clouds,
he is not sure.
in his heart, however, he knows it is neither.
it feels as it did before,
when blackened veils
drifted across the moon
and the world s l o w l y ,
he was there when the world dawned,
and so shall accompany her
gradually losing sight of the sun
and of his own mottled hands,
which have lovingly recorded
the histories of the world,
until finally, everything
dims and blurs, fading from view
and time, and
taking him along with it.
2. complicatedi. he was the kind of man who existed only in romantic novels, not in real life. when she stumbled over the strap of his bag in the coffee shop and dropped her book and mug of tea, he was there to help her to her feet. making sure the drink hadn't stained her clothes, she glanced downwards before looking at him and noticed that a book had fallen out of his leather shoulder bag. she had picked it up and they had handed each other their respective lost items, sharing amused smiles as they realized they were reading the same novel. he insisted he replace her wasted tea and she finally relented and allowed him to buy her another. they sat in the shop for over an hour, their teas going cold as they bonded over books, winter, and poetry. when at last they separated it was due to the closing of the shop and she headed home to her husband, and he to his empty house, neither expecting to see the other again.
ii. a month later she spotted him in the same corner of the
memoryshe was a shivering ghost before his eyes,
not entirely a dream, but an old memory
in the dusted air of summer.
whatever spark they'd once had burned quickly
and burst into nothingness, like a vast black hole
set amongst countless failed and broken stars
that had once been beautiful as well.
her voice still lingered in the sky sometimes,
a soft fading whisper
a promise to those dreamers of stars and vapor and
naive imaginings of love,
a promise to the others who'd found themselves
lost in darkness, abandoned.
in the end, she whispered,
those ships lost at sea in a storm of dread
return to find their way through waves of white-frothed dreams,
reborn with a stronger sense of direction in life
and prepared to once again enter the storm that is love.
with her words in mind,
he feels that he is ready to set sail once more,
that he can drift to yet unexplored seas
beneath empty skies and leave behind
And With My Words I FlyUpon the worn old wooden swing
where roses fill the air,
I sit awhile with pen in hand
as wind stirs up my hair.
Like shining silk it swings about,
a cascade of twisting braids.
I close my eyes and suddenly
the world around me fades.
With eyes like stars I gaze anew
upon a dream-like world,
and lost within its loveliness
my thoughts become unfurled.
The skies are dark, the silence deep,
the stars are black and cold.
I cannot rest, I cannot pause
until my tale is told.
Yet suddenly, a light appears
and triumphs over night.
With steady hands and ready mind
I grip my pen and write.
My blood is ink, and ink is blood
free flowing from my hand,
I sit and think and etch my thoughts
my story, at my command.
Forever a child, my mind is filled
with dreams of times gone by.
I long for wings, I long for love
and with my words I fly.
timeA haunted look, a ragged gasp--
my breath seems to freeze.
The slap of feet in winter's air
is taken by the breeze.
I run, I race, I carry on
and yet cannot escape
this thing, this fear, this enemy
that takes no form or shape.
Each tree I pass, each stranger new,
each flower frozen sweet,
has given in, has grown old,
has gone and faced defeat.
The clocks all tick, the bells all toll,
the world is ever burning.
The earth is spinning, spinning, spinning
and I am yearning, yearning.
My heart, my pulse, my crimson blood;
they all beat madly fast.
The sound of passing Time, of years,
Of future, now, and past.
I take a stride, and then another
but time will forever hold
my soul, my life, my every being
until I'm bent and old.
A weathered face, wrinkled skin,
a life slowly failing,
and in its wake, Time ever follows
with Death behind it, trailing.
Another tree, another face,
I slow, the world is still.
I've given up, Time has won
Death creeps in to kill.