I once heard someone say
when discussing life’s troubles

“Don’t worry, God is flipping
the big pancakes”

I thought
“It’s a good thing somebody is”

even the little silver dollar ones
come out burned on one side
gooey on the other
and stuck to the wall
when I try

take me to that shadowed place
past all the songs and tales untold
for none can ever see a trace
in domains dark where souls are sold

chill thoughts in solemn darkness tread
outside the sun’s beguiling spell
through barrens deep in mortal dread
of endless night and frozen hell

my voice lies mute in lifeless cold
where twilit lands may hide my face
beyond my youth and dreams of gold
conceal my wretched fall from grace

with stone and star I now will dwell
and grieve alone for words unsaid
leave bone and dust my fate to tell
weep silent tears that must be shed

don’t make me write another poem
with fancy words cause I don't know ‘em

I’ll write a book or short article
make science notes about a particle

a brief speech or an opinion piece
type a travel blog of sunny Greece

I’d gladly pen a romance novel
if poetry’s asked I’d sooner grovel

I’ve lost the power of rhyme you see
as fork and spoon sound the same to me

but now I see what I have written
it reads like Edward Bulwer-Lytton

I’m stuck in couplets what a curse
but what the hell it could be verse

wrapped in the tatters of my body
in this measureless place

I search for release
among the disconsolate boles
thin as hope
hard and dark

wearing pallid shrouds
of frozen lace
proudly displayed
in their alfresco mausoleum

an inexhaustible study
in the extremes
of leaden purity

their moribund limbs
and ice sheathed fingers
reach into me
pulling me on

tears of other lives
in frosted glory
cold upon my wintered face

always renewed
and living on
in fractal eternity

I have no memory of breath
till we kissed
now each breath recalled
spoke of you

each moment infused
with airs of your inclination
your unfolding sigh
filled me

kiss me
once more

your lips on mine
breathe into me
my last breath
must be yours

till I return it

all heart and soul and love I gave
my life was yours a willing slave
eternal bond past death I crave
now call me forth from lonely grave

reunion lies in shrouded mist
memory held when last we kissed
for only thoughts of you persist
and pull me on to fearful tryst

I seek your hand in darkened hall
the walls twixt life and death now fall
your ballroom gown stitched from my pall
let music of beyond enthrall

dance with me when the moon is full
in dark of night dance with my soul
with shadow’s deep embrace console
stitch me closed and make me whole

in a room of unimaged beauty
with curtains woven
from threads of unused dreams
and carpets embroidered
by imaginings of crumpled poetry

songs of hope and fantasy
are left unsung
written on blank pages
carefully laid on the piano
whose keys are all black

here is served perfect tea
in exquisite porcelain cups
each place set with polished silver
giving no reflection

the Things That Might Have Been
are the only guests
they appear in their seats
translucent and shimmering
gaining solidity
staring at their perfect tea
in its exquisite porcelain cup

but they do not drink

if two materialize at the same table
they gaze at each other
with pleading eyes
needing with all their fragile existence
an answer

reasons may be exchanged
but not one of them ever
has an answer

they dissolve
hoping to return
for an answer

leaving behind their perfect tea
in its exquisite porcelain cup