A Conscientious Ritual – A Poem

Grieve in the pines and let their
abundance signal a spring
Our ghosts we fabricate with ribbons
to bleed on the naked floor.

A conscientious ritual formed by
generations of suffering flow out of wounds
too discreet to divulge
but in that vain language of metaphor. It is only
I speak.

I will, I will and I will

and that worth brings islands of rational
hallucinations. The epitome of a resigned life
speaks in ordered tones.

Tell me a story in the meadow we visited
in a yourh that only occurred
as we imagined. I will hold to it
as a sacred

The hyacinth blooms in the
radience of a
silver dawn. It is now
but again to be.


Wickedness – A Poem

Many suns reflect under
brilliant memories
which erode under the flow of the rain.
My cause is remedied by the open
liquor cabinet.

To speak of that fair day

is the only fantasy still afforded.

A ballet of wickedness spirals before me
as I sip my drink in an abandoned

Go now. There the door, the gate,
the swift shadow fleeing
from the brightness
it brings.