Through Posthumous Twilights Given


My arrival into discrepancy isn’t new
It’s as old as bristling diamond sparks
My glory in grief is minor
My shifting sequences are brittle
The love I bear is getting weaker
While to others, I’m merely a gentle fire
Unremarkable in illumined simplicity
My arrival into anonymity isn’t new
It’s as old as the Tao beclouded, austere
I go strolling and my dreams kiss older women
I’m almost unafraid to settle for silhouettes
Of the life I thought I’d lead
My glory in evergreen, cherry bloom shutters
Life is racing without consolation
Life, she will not be sending any more letters
To my heart ablaze at the stake
No warrior of God’s battalion of merits did I become
Simply as worried as if I’ll be able to forgive
The self-neglect of so much meaningless grieving.

Only a Passing Shrine


8

I live with Him – I see his face
Death, the sundown visitor
The look that claims us from the invisible
I’ve seen people die of grief
I’ve felt the enormous conviction
Of hopelessness, going unloved

The Stillness of the Room
When the brain stops being creative
I’ve looked in the eyes of the elderly
Tried to find the light in their eyes
There is an uncertain stumbling buzz
In the way I feel incomplete, in

The notices of feeling alive, intense
Is the lack of beloved visitors
The absence of true friends
Proof that physicians are wrong
About the human spirit, do I have
Permission to recant, permission to forget

That this life is a series of goals
That I learn and am growing
From traveling proceeding?
To Ache is human, it’s not polite
It’s just mortality’s oldest custom
The little toil of Love, on the edges
Of all that I hold dear….