Song of grief
It used to be
that I felt free,
but a song of grief
(that I pray is brief)
is haunting me.
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Three times, a charm
Once to remember,
twice to forget –
things that were,
and things not yet.
Once for vengeance,
twice for hate.
Have I lost my balance?
Is it too late?
Once for grief,
and twice for pain.
I pray there’s relief
somewhere down the lane.
Thrice and thrice again I’ve fought,
yet lack the peace I dearly sought.
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Sublime
In the dreaming
there’s a seeming
that rings truer
than all that you’re
screaming.
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Hibernation
I know
it’s desolate,
but no matter how bleak
today may seem to you, please – please,
Hold on.
The world is not done with you yet,
and somewhere out there wait
slumbering signs
of Life.
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Elliptical
Life is a cycle,
but not a circle,
for the trials of time
stretch and strain us
into oval opulence.
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Building block
Love is the foundation of all things.
From Love grows roots,
diving down deep,
anchoring us to the world,
anchoring us from the world,
and all of its storms.
From Love grows branches,
reaching high into the heavens,
catching the Sun and the wind
in gentle green hands,
tender to the touch.
From Love grows fruit,
succulent to the senses,
but the worth of such treasures
lay not the way they make you feel,
but in the seeds of future growth.
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Celestial seed
A flame falls from the heavens,
thundering into the world,
but from the burning wreckage
bloom brilliant blossoms
of otherworldly vibrancy.
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Private party
The social circle holding tight
long into the dark of night,
as each of them try to inspire
their companions by the fire.
But their company raises walls –
stone-cold sentinels that stand so tall
that those outside can’t bear to dare
to dream of being welcomed there.
Now the hearth just looks so cold
to the people who are told
that they just do not belong,
that they should just move along.
So they turn and walk away,
for they cannot bear to stay
and watch people that seem so warm
but treat them colder than a winter storm.
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Childhood’s end
You try to hide
the ocean inside,
and wish them well
with every swell
of the mourning tide.
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Alone with yourself
When the night is empty
of even echoes,
what do you hear there
in the silence?
When it’s past midnight
and the lights are out,
what do you see there
watching you in the dark?
When you’re lying in bed
reaching for sleep,
what do you feel there
between your sheets?
When you think that you’re alone,
who is right there by your side?
Who else would be there,
but the you whom you wish to hide?
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A (wise) man of two faces 