And Then

Maybe this is me.

And then maybe this is me
Just a dying leafless tree
As the winter cold sets in
Blighted and beset by sin

Sin as separation from
All that could have should have come
Yet alone here on the plain
I alone erect in pain

Pain always my mind besetting
Leaves no chance of e’er forgetting
Sole discarded cold debris
And then maybe this

Is me

He Hears The Nearing Thunder

… as the sky begins to shake.

He hears the nearing thunder as
The sky begins to shake;
He shuddering will wonder if
He’ll die before he’ll wake

And he will kiss the memories
He long thought he had banned;
For life and death are all the same
They didn’t go
As planned


The voice of the gray morning…

The morning speaks to me of smoke and failure
Of tired feet and shoulders stiff with ache;
Of half-dreamed dreams that fade then out of being
Of practiced tension, thirst one cannot slake;

The morning speaks to me of vague acceptance
Of broken life, of lies, and now, ennui —
Of people who have passed into remembrance
Of everything that was, or soon
Won’t be

The Creative Type

I always wanted to be the creative type,
Although I can’t say why now, looking back —
You think of it as building sort of worlds,
Instead of filling in some void, or lack —

But what is it but random muscle play,
Or telling jokes in giant empty halls,
Recounting stories no one thinks of twice,
Or crying to the ceiling or the walls?

And yet, when I was six years old, I drew,
And added in the colors: green, red, blue –
And though there was no crowd, no audience,
I knew, at least, that that one page

Made sense