the morning's silence sits on a rock cross-legged
quietly smelling the fragrance of a rose,
the sun's rays pierce through the haze like
folded cloth on a religious altar...
it always begins the same way
casting shadows on the day,
the path grow narrower the farther we progress inside,
uncertainty weighs on our shoulders
and we find our inner strength weakening,
as if it were some kind of incurable disease that
slowly pulls our spirits into a dark tunnel,
a funnel which has no opening out
no escape... a perpetual desolation... only an
isolated glimpse at what we were before
once we finally gave up trying.
Once Younger
once younger we were
when clearer than our
intentions were motives,
less confusing than
our rejected mentor,
a lifestyle rigid and strict,
unromantic by its routines,
a vocational experience
taught us to seek avocation
before we rested and found
ourselves in twenty years of silence,
hibernating while out wills
to preserved survived.
Imagination
she lives on the wings
of imagination, a
gentle spirit whose
course sometimes passes;
she lives alone with a
handful of memories
counted like sheep, her
days overlap with yesterdays
as all her tomorrows try
to peer over her shoulder;
her eyes watch unforgivingly
the people who pass through
her life like the wind;
an early frost dwindles her
preoccupation as she retrieves
her plants to the warmth of house
and unmolested she picks up
the book and re-reads her life.
Fading Youth
sands of thought like those an
hourglass make, through my
mind sift and fall in a form of
easy suspended animation;
a war within the darkness rages,
a pinhole of light peers in
ostensibly from nowhere (like a laser)
and from my age is illuminated
a most interesting fading youth,
only a glimmering insight remains;
warped and disfigured animation,
a recapitulation of all the wrong moves
played out at all the wrong times,
leaving a void where hope meant to be
and when we finally give up, we see
charity was the last one to lose.
she turns and goes and with
her goes all of our feelings,
she blinks and our vision
dissipates as quickly as it began,
its story written on wrapping paper,
tattered and torn
collected and stored in
volumes on the concrete shelf;
she turns away and so does the
minutes turn to hours and the
hours into days and the days
into months and as the months add up
she gives us years and decades;
past us it spins and with each new spin
we become closer to the extreme,
preoccupied with aged indifference,
and faded memories, wondering if our
expiration date will last long enough
to find security and happiness.
Closer Together
our heartbeats cover the silence
like a fine mist covers grass,
our sympathetic rhythms paralyze all
but today's thoughts and feelings and a
predictable warmth defends their absence;
we surround ourselves with greenery and
challenge the elements of an unsavory past,
we beckon temptation, resist completion
as our conflicts continue along with
a struggle that harbors its own frustrations
and we relax as if in a deep sleep, reaching
for that one instance in which our hope
will finally bring us closer together.
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