The moon hangs
His cold curl of a traitor's smile
Alone on the sky;
but for the stars.
Those standards of loneliness, falling
Into disrepair as morning encroaches
Upon the end of an
epoch, unconsciously passed.
All that has been broken is all that remains;
Our age we bear with unnatural
While we divide the riches amassed.
In preparation of the second benediction,
The messengers have been despatched.
marathon errand a contradiction
Akin to that alive in the martyred Greek.
Again, he questions the window of your return.
A usurper, fabled into
Or from -
It is all the same without her.
There is no more meaning
To the dying words of the saint
in the murmur of the wind.
Not that there is less:
Both share their stories indiscriminately.
This disappearance of days,
Existing without the range of the setting sun,
roaming between resurrection and ascension;
Awaiting an invitation to creation,
Outside a postcard
from the apocalypse.
This home but a kingdom where hours preside,
And Time's dictate reduces
To mere mechanics.
Reason has been forfeited to the favour of release;
A freedom sought at our own
What cares the future for the past?
Cause has been removed from solution,
We have narrowed possibility down to the infinite -
An impatient people, longing for the end of time.
Prophets fade, prophesies with them,
Sinking to the depths of iniquitous
No more do they register on the conscious,
Nor between the ends of the earth
Where we go when the sky descends.
This library of words, drying
Beneath a sun, closing in fast.
Swollen faces surrounded by thought,
the thought of a thought -
A memory struggles for breath.
spied from behind this veil of sound,
The silence of the stars abounds.
Even the nearest is out of reach,
long ago I ceased to measure their retreat.
he walks, face on shoulder
Askance at what follows,
While I shuffle unmolested through invisible streets:
I bloom in my insignificance.
of mind but not of memory,
He curses the sun that shines only at his back,
As if the past were more important than any
That low sun casts a dark shape -
Long, it stretches
Hiding as he turns to face the light,
As if it were afraid of its creator -
More, then, a reflection than
These hands which felt the form of the wind
Are now disguised in pockets
as I meander,
Distrustful of a world whose frame they created.
Their moulding fingers that held the clouds,
that pressed the ocean's floor,
Have curled around sharp fists:
Defensive against their inventions,
Fearful of their
Beneath a blackening night
I weave under its influence; listening,
on the darkness, for the music -
And, in my hope, am forgotten;
Wanting for sound.
Not a note will be heard -
maestro of the midnight is gone -
The telling of the final end.
The Amen upon her lips was a lie.
Praying to a ghost for a ghost's return.
hands clasped to the breast
Withhold the word she dares not speak;
The bow of the head is more
Than submission to
that which cannot be believed.
The cell door closes -
Isolation is on the rise.
Turning, she smiles an obsolete
And forgets the future she left behind.
Upon his graveyard seat,
An Appalachian sunset for company,
to be his final home?
To look down across his fleeing footsteps
Which take their place beside watered prints,
reminders of difference and deficience.
Where are the ones who walk the waves?
Whose mind and manner can do
They who sang the universe in haunting rhyme;
Who invented and relinquished the earth -
they return to claim their prize?
To stand before the highest peak
And conquer it with vanitous words.
Others, still, walk this razor's edge,
To write in vain of a world unknown.
even such a place exist, where truth is free?
Though ours may be new,
Even Parsifal, so pure, had to strive for his
My monologue mind in singular reminiscence
Of watered-down memories
and half-naked confessions;
Of an age of elixir
When, at your insistence,
Was I not the hero of your low-born existence?
now, in unrelenting curse,
As eye-drying hands find solution to your tears,
I slander my obsession.
The ghost of a smile,
Flickers beneath the intrigue of prying eyes;
voice, in distant echoes,
Quoting history to explain our future.
Barely beats the heart a metronomic hum.
She from her window of freedom,
Praying in smoke-signals to her hindsight-saviour.
corridor'd view of an autumnal eve,
Dressed in dusk,
A soul on the wing of meditation,
Expectation met knowledge
beyond curiosity's doubt -
A mutual recognition and she knew she was right.