Poetic  embers etch alignment on broad palette,
the torch within me flickers solid,
arrange a picture pine potent,
yet the pursuit is the ultimate unique path,
neither this staunch river streamlet,
nor inviting evening shroud erased partially,
should even commence to stint,
or to thwart the human halo decipher at source,
follow instinct when one types furious verse awkwardly,
but I will not stray from the sublime passages inherent,
time referral innovation is an absolute signal,
my utmost is never that consummate construct,

Nothing to be learned,
nothing to be gained,
art to be made,
madness to be kissed.

Make love to your revered beauty.
She looks onto your state of mind as piousness,
and to the pious she blesses
the key of art,
the key to the heart.

She gives courage to keep the fire bright
of a hopeless love and an unattainable dream,
the one that makes you wake up
gleaming with sweat
and cursing at your hopelessness and inadequacy.

Make love to your enamored deity
that will let you fly to the sun
with your makeshift wings.

Glib rhetoric concerned with  striking independence may seem frivolous,
nuanced rational quite often a typical traumatic casualty,
the once interminable interdependent passionate zeal disintegrating in rapid spasms,
a longing sated and mutually embraced by two compatible persons now collapsed,
indivisibility transformed or transforming into invisibility and the direction sadly inevitable,
aftermath of intensity level shock to pitiless essence,
recovery initial or eventual appearing an amorphous  transit flight  hazy prospect,

way from this chaotic world  
Alone, just by myself,
in the serene solitude of seclusion,
wrapped in the gathering gloom
of the solemn dusk,
I am at peace with myself…
A strange stillness settles in my mind.

The soul of silence snuggles slyly
and the somber sphere of solitude
draws the spirit of serenity close.

With the sun long gone and
the moon lost in a maze of haze,
the hills stand mute and gray.

There is not a stir,
No sighs of whisper
nor a phantom of shadow,
As if the day is held
on the cusp of twilight.

The cards foretell,
beyond the cosmic veil,
sacrifices.

Rain hides the dark tower--
dark corners,
dark divinations...

From the cradle to the grave
odd tales of wonder
killing it softly...

"Come to my window,
you've nothing to lose..."
overheard in Hell.

Blood and ashes,
dead men's tales...
in a flash of fire...

Merely this and nothing more


(originally a found poem Substack post created from titles of books I've been in.)

Flowers ’round a fresh grave,
Whispers of the song,
Bells ring loud ‘round the town,
Mourners gather in the nave,
All happiness is clear forgotten,
The sky, not the grave, is the goal, I’ve found.
The preacher gives his finest speech,
Tear ducts open again to leak,
Callers bring their empathy,
Tonight not a single soul sleeps sound.
Broken is the frigid soil,
Where the soldier-boy is laid,
Too far under to be in the toil.
Flowers afresh all around.

Flowers wilting round the grave,
Buried are the whispers of the song,

.
-
Once
Mother awoke
from her slumber,
she must have felt lonely.
Perhaps the carnation shrivelled,
or the water had all dried up. Maybe
the fawn turned deer or the cacoon was
left empty. And so, amidst mud and dirt, she
moulded her first companion. To fill her barren
existence. Incompleteness. And so she birthed the
fecundity of creation. At some point humanity took his
first step. Mother must have been very pleased. She held