A question

What good is a beautiful crystal

with no light to complement or sparkle through it?

What good is a mirror

with no image to reflect back?

How pretty is a rose bud

who’s stem is dry as bone?

How sweet is chocolate

left abandoned on the shelf of a long closed gift shop?

Why does the pain still ache

when you are numb and frozen to the core?

What good is midnight’s promise of sunrise coming

to a soul long wandering in twilight’s perpetual maze?

An end to a lie.

Twisted, tangled and entwined,

tattered threads woven, a cloak of lies.

Fringing and fraying along the edges,

tearing and torn and ragged at the seams.

Ruptured and ripped and shredding apart,

slitting and splitting every weakening stitch.

A single tug lightly, of a slack loosened string,

it all unravels.

An end to a lie

and it’s wake of deceit.

Stirring and blurring.

She is far more dangerous as a confidant,

than as a lover ever could be.

She knows my hidden dreams and silent yearnings,

she asks me to share them and set them free.

Far more stirring,

an emotional blurring,

an intimacy of the soul.

An open heart beating,

like an open book for reading,

A cold fire kindles and struggles from control.

Slumbering ecstasy

It comes from within dreams,

sweetly, sleekly.

Flowing in, trickling, in soft, smooth streams.

sleekly, subtly.

Soothing a hunger, washing a thirst,

subtly, silently.

Drowning in sleeping ecstasy, wholly submersed.

silently, slumbering.

The beauty of death.

There is subtle beauty in death

A transgression, that which is born of the ending.

It is not a morbid adoration of the last breath.

Nor a fixation on mortal loss, sorrow or suffering.

It is in the dying of autumn.

Continued through the tranquil dormancy of barren  winter.

Abandoned and frozen, lifelessly numb.

Crackling underfoot, fallen twigs, brittle and splintered.

Out of this death and dreary spell,

Decay turns to birth that late March brings.

Spilling forth from bounty’s well.

New life and color rich glory alive with the dawn of spring.

An opiate

She is like an early autumn leaf drifting,

fluttering, flitting, dancing about in the chilled fall air.

Or maybe she is the breeze.

She is like a favorite lyric from an ageless ballad,

treasured and beloved as it pulls at the heart.

Or maybe she is the melody.

She is like a potent elixir, an opiate, to the soul distraught,

soothing to an ease loneliness and the tragedies of being.

Or maybe she is dreadful poison.

Solitude.

She sleeps the day away alone,

with only her dreams and her cats.

All alone she toils through the early evening,

with only her thoughts and her cats.

Through the still hours of a silent night, alone, she stirs,

with only her books and her cats.

Life slips slowly onward, most often, she is alone,

with only her solitude and her cats.

Out of the rain.

Below an awning, she stands alone.

The storming skies pour down.

Her hair, dripping droplets of rain at the ends.

On her face, the water gathered and beaded.

She possesses a beauty rarely seen,

like a scarce find of amber, as the sun, washing alight, casts it’s rays,

luminous glow gleaming fiery orange to gold.

She steps forward.

Out of the realm of dreams,

into my reality.

Silent secrets.

It is like watching a butterfly struggling free of the cocoon,

escaping in fluttering flight, before another’s eyes witness.

It is like discovering a hidden and secluded spring,

cloaked in the depths of a lonely forest,

cool waters softly streaming over slate and shale.

Like an untamed and haunting melody,

sure to touch the heart of any listener,

kept mute, only alive within the fruitful mind of the masterful musician.

It is a secret, silent and concealed.

Something beautiful, blissful and exquisite

held quietly, intimately within, for no other to behold.

It is a dagger,

honed to a fatal edge.

Held too close to ones own heart.

Poets are liars!

Poets are liars,

their sweet words false!

The bastards of Bacchus,

laughing at loss.

 

Weaving their words,

their key to the gate.

Whispering blissfully,

their aim to sedate.

 

Of beauty and pain

and love and sorrow.

Of sadness, seduction

and hope or tomorrow.

 

Painting their images,

florid verse and themes.

Those they’ve persuaded,

the heart full of dreams.