Obsessive

“The locus of a dream my heart can’t find…”

He cannot get your face out of his mind
The many things he should’ve, could’ve done –
He must, somehow, leave what you had behind

With guilt and pleasure, garnered, intertwined
Obscuring clouds that cancel out the sun
He cannot get your face out of his mind

The locus of a dream his heart can’t find
The rainy streets that will forever run
He must, somehow, leave what you had behind

To lose one’s self in spirit and in kind
Beyond recall, of many or of one —
He cannot get your face out of his mind

The streets are empty now and misaligned
A lonely creature walks whom all must shun
He must, somehow, leave what you had behind

He’ll linger where the last of your rays shined
He’ll struggle for a hope, but will find none:
He cannot get your face out of his mind
He must, somehow, leave what you had behind

the stranger’s way

the end of a pellucid day,
the fleeing of vexation’s hold,
the guider’s guard, and stranger’s way.

though paths may often lead astray,
they sometimes show the way of gold,
the end of a pellucid day.

we fill our barns with fear and hay,
and harbor many tales untold:
the guider’s guard, and stranger’s way.

though boots be strong, our feet are clay,
and yet our passions don’t run cold
the end of a pellucid day.

so much we want and need to say
as lives grow tensile, then unrolled,
the guider’s guard, and stranger’s way.

the sun goes down, the wind’s at play,
the young at mind grow body old,
the end of a pellucid day,
the guider’s guard, and stranger’s way.

2017 : June

The dying of the empty street,
With yet the flag that grimly waves:
The short success, the long defeat.

The bricks were laid, and eaves made neat:
So soon to see, these same enclaves
The dying of the empty street.

Each ledger, and each balance sheet,
Once-busy stores that turned to caves,
(The short success, the long defeat)

Of nails and screws in size complete,
Of two-by-fours and barrel staves
(Now dying is the empty street)

An ever smile, never cheat,
For all who pass these architraves —
Still short success, then long defeat.

Why do I mourn the obsolete?
I’m one who sees, not one who saves —
The dying of the empty street:
The short success
The long
Defeat