Eyes lissom, lost twinned in amnesia of darkness wrapped around the orphaned dream interwoven alone leave me alone
Tag: Mourning
We’ve lived nothing as a dream.
I wake to the darkest light; the marshes cry in the mist,
And my eyes fix to the shaking of the wind, grazing the footfall by the permafrost,
It is a maddening world out there—the roads beaten, unlit,
Crawling of a cedar’s blood
Slaved in an undressed pottery polished in white lines
Shadows tremble in ghost shores.
A breath. One breath—sea light
You’re
Shifting, lying down— unwrapped, despoiled
Of Death.
When your shrine of Death kisses and weeps,
It bows that death of stream with washes of rapt echoes,
When exclaimed, the vaults of sorrow through valleys ago,
I should again be silenced by eidolons where no dream reaps
Where Does It Leave?
Will you be by the river? My shadow stays.
What would it leave to the torn skin where lights retreat?
As I wonder, I know it will be away.
The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.
As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,
Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.
Unquiet Light.
When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
Pseudopsychosis. 