All the pure thinkers
are slave to the Poet
Their theories self-serving
whose quotients divide

With ‘facts’ that convict them
to prisons constructed
From every transcendence
— their numbers can’t hide

(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: May, 2025)

He reclines in his brittle chair carved from his own grief,
Not very regal, but heavily resigned to the aches.
The weight of silence cleanly cuts through the air.
His hands, now mapless, no longer seek.
Memories he left behind in clouds, were few and brief.

Books cradle their breath upon the shelf.
Never once a glance as he knows their unchanging tone.
The windows screech with tempered light
As regret drips down the pale pane of ivory bones.
His posture reflects the weight of years notched in his belt.
The leather groans, stretched too thin like his sense of self.

The hour never bows a whim to beg his name.
Dust circles, never sure as to where to fall.
His suit of choice is a reliquary of loss.
Each button, a distant memory hard pressed in shame.
The air is stained
The room too small.
A silent gasp
The last breath falls.

In their formative
moments
artists live alone
Sharing themselves
only when
the pain has dulled

In corners
of dark musings  
their spirit’s hide
Calling out  
whenever the lights go down
— and the rush is gone

(The New Room: May, 2025)