She holds the eye that freeze time.
She chastises cold and space and time.
While the world sleeps and passes by,
She stands in snow, under quiet sky.
As for the eye that she holds,
For now it shall remain closed.
Until the moment it opens and,
A moment lost, then held in hand.
Dedicated to my friend Carole D.
Opened. Escaped smoke.
Reflection on what ones lost.
Now one with the sky.
One day, the devils own
Survive suprise everything
Anyone, any boulder falling
Too sharp. Undull.
A gathering and death of seagulls.
The vultures that pick.
Corpses devoured and souls untethered.
Such a troubled spirit.
Such a darkened tide.
In me would you confide?
Devil says he owns
But even his lease expires.
Why perspire? All fade
Each light dies.
Every pain ends.
Close your eyes.
Is a light still lit when no eyes perceive?
Will a shadow remain and still deceive?
You do not see, you cannot know
Say to yourself: “I am free.”
If you do not open your eyes
You cannot prove them lies.
Another day, the devils own,
He then sits upon his throne.
One of lies. His own.
Embrace your suffering, all pain ends.
The vultures picking bones do tend
To become a feast for worms.
Even the devil will eventually burn.
Posted in From the shadows
Tagged bone, burn, devil, feast, lease, pain, poetry, seagull, suffer, tide, vulture, worm
Often, sinking into foam,
On our transport all alone,
With nothing but the neon glow
Of the broken signs to show
What path lies before, behind.
In the distance, obseverent eyes
Not at all the lonely spies,
We’ve long taught ourselves to despise.
Beside this wreakage, unmoving I,
There in the cold the same as me,
A myriad of eyes I plainly see.
At the end of the tunnel, this is the light:
Just another broken train burning bright.
Posted in Life (or something like it)
Tagged burn, burning, cold, eyes, foam, light, poetry, spies, trains, tunnel, watch
We cannot trust one more, one less,
We cannot trust ourselves unless, We accept this dream for what it seems.
We must embrace, then, what it brings.
Dream or reality? Who can tell, does it matter
When dreams themselves do not bother to flatter?
They do not think, they do not feel!
For heavens sake they aren’t even real!
What are dreams but reality only the dreamer can touch?
And what is an illusion if not then viewed as such?
These are questions. These are things
That define us, it would seem.
Not the answer, but the search,
And all we find there in between.