Oct 8, 2016
It’s always darkest… In dusk when rust of hills is crowned with gold the veins of rivers fill with blood and rooks…
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It’s always darkest… In dusk when rust of hills is crowned with gold the veins of rivers fill with blood and rooks…
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Bared, its branches dance October skeletal to chthonic music, crush of leaves beneath, an oak, its limbs a somber filigree with rooks above in plumage clerical. With wreath in hand I bow for fall, believe I hear the voice of summer’s symmetry. Afterwards, you’ve lit a fire, glass of wine with ruby sheen its blood, is memories of warmth inside, a glow affects my mind from brush of lips, your…
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Beloved
Words... that could never be spoken,  the tender caress of unbroken rapture upon my breast the mark of love's token    bound by joy the heart captured? Lament not of shadows brushed with twilight,  darkness turns unveiled warm burning fire passions en-kindle and twist in spite   the agonizing ache of perpetual desire. Strong as the wind blows, fleeting the exhale   the warm breath of a quiet reverie words that carry my spirit to air    flighted on a feathered wing free. Silent whispers like clouds depart   as I sing the song of my heart.
experimental sonnetina #1
I scatter seeds, already knowing I'll be elsewhere when the harvest is brought in. That's life, a time with which I am eternally at odds.
Today, gathering up my odds and ends, reserving a knowing smile for the girl who calls out "Time to go! We're closing up," do I invest
these fine-grained moments—this rich rosy harvest reaped by consciousness, as it plods on predictably, towards the end of time— with a weight I should reserve for nothing?
Not-knowing is the hardest. Time makes us less than gods.