My Face in the Window

Do not look at me through your open window.
Do not gaze upon my flesh.
How many lions, before you, wish to eat me?
Surely do you jest?
Occupy the chair you coward,
Show to me your true face.
But I only need a mirror
A self portrait in its place.
An empty chair,
And on the stairs,
The man who wasn’t there.
You weren’t there again today,
Maybe someday
That will change.
Perhaps someday you’ll go away.

Question Everything.

Am I being shown?
I am being told to look
Here, there, not over there
Do not look everywhere
Out of the corner of my eye I see
Questions surrounding me.
Questions I would have not known before,
Had I kept my eyes straight
And not wanted to know more.

Winter is Not Far

In the darkened forest of
Those below and those above,
Followed I am through the dead and rustling leaves.
Summer sun or autumn light?
All but forgotten where I might
Have awoken in the midst of those lost trees.
My only clue is the warm
Of the breeze that around me swarms.
Here something whispers: “Winter is not far.”.
There’s a break in the canopy
That offers no new sight to see,
Only the grey that stretches on and on and on.
My steps carry me no farther
The wind carries words from afar, her
Messages are seldom those of comfort, much less of wisdom.
Raindrops and a cold now herald
The days end; my easy path turned feral.
Just how cold and wet remains for me to be seen.
No shelter, no end, no rest,
I wander on, and do my best,
To stay on a straight path, and not become more lost.
With daylight now expired
I sit, my eyes so tired,
And hope when I awaken that the world will be a different place.
I awake without opening my eyes
I’ll not do so voluntarily, something else must pry,
For the rustling of leaves tells me something I ought not to hear.
Standing up and pushing on,
I tread paths where nothing belongs,
And an echo of a whisper repeats: “Winter is not far.”

Behind an Open Door

If only tomorrow would fail to come
And this burden from her chest were lifted,
There was no end, this day were simply done,
This were the number of her days gifted.
There was sleep she sought, and the sleep sought her,
Flattering, that the void felt incomplete.
Eternity and nothing now a blur,
Like the moment a dog dies in the street.
She sits there and thinks and opens her eyes,
And stares at the next soul who might save hers.
So many moments, this too passes by,
What if she’s made to go on as a curse?
Unique. Never again, never before,
She tries to hide behind an open door.