Morning Wakes Upon the Hill

The morning wakes upon the hill,
The moon awaits me in the glen;
I set out with a frozen will
To talk to you again.

The world is just a funeral fire,
A ceremony of remorse;
And still I’m climbing, ever higher,
Set upon this course —

I asked you for forgiveness once;
You set about it with good grace –
But you’ve been gone, and now your ghost
Moves softly through this place

Of missing leaves, and morning mist.
Mid echoes of intention,
I take the path that upward lies
Defying such convention

As would dictate a different course.
I knew you back when love was life;
And life was not enframed by death
And peace was not entombed in strife.

We can’t recapture innocence —
For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good,
And all our striving, in a sense,
Is just so much misunderstood

By others; and by (often) us.
How can it be the trees still know?
They lose their splendor; still, they stand.
And every single path will show

The wisdom of the rocks and trees,
The solemn beauty in the soil;
Where love is not some rash disease,
But more like liberty in toil –

To live, to grow: these are our days –
To strive to know as many ways
To scale the hills as we can find:
And integrate the body-mind

Into the whole ’twas meant to be.
Whether on mountainside or fen —
As morning wakes upon the hill,
And moon awaits us in
The glen

confidence, that thief

back here, how strange it is, the heart is sore,
as memories like lies, and sons of lies
touch cold bare feet onto a frozen floor
beneath a ghost they sought to idolize

how comforting – the fault was never owned:
there need be nothing learned or set away
or carried into bright and awkward day
from pedestals where they have lived, enthroned

and stories, like a hive, are built and set:
the never-happened, covering regret
encapsulates, and keeps the real world out,
so progress can be stopped, along with doubt.

the old clock ticks, and day soon swallows night,
and never-can-be-wrong is never right

the gold of the december sun…

the gold of the december sun
has touched the fields of white –
the anger goes, what’s done is done,
it’s time to make things right –

the fire in the sky is like
the one within your heart –
for old times never end until
the new ones
start

Colors

Why is it colors know
The things that I can’t say?
How did I come to feel
So lost in yesterday?

The color’s in my head and hands,
The anger’s in my blood and bone,
The voices do not bother me,
For I am one, alone —

The inspiration of the eye,
The resurrection of the mind,
The colors of our diffidence,
The future, left behind —

Where is it colors lead?
Those siblings, Joy and Grief,
Have come to take me far
Into my own belief —

Why is it colors point
Beyond what I can see?
And why do I begin to know
The faith you have
In me?

to feel the dark again

i want to feel the dark again
to feel the dark
to know the dark
i want to feel the dark again
and let it stain my soul

but not with evil’s angry touch
to be no pain
to know no pain
but not with evil’s angry touch
amid the darkened hole

i want to sense what isn’t there
not with my eyes
my lying eyes
i want to sense what isn’t there
and into dreams embark

i want to be what i should be
but never was
and never am
i want to be what i should be
a creature of
the dark