The wink of the moon is a forgiving description,
The locks of your hair, brittle and worn,
Every tomb you forebear has a decaying inscription,
Your empty touch can drive even the most stoic to mourn.

Unconsidered by nature, but naturally torn,
The weight you must bear is never applied,
Vengeful at your mention, and your destruction they've sworn,
With the strength of cyanide, but your effects shall never subside.

You keep your fair distance,
Through your eyes you see no favorite,
Sickness plagues all at your mere insistence,
You're a people watcher, a natural behaviorist.

I can't avoid or dismiss you my love,
But Death, my fair maiden, there's not an hour you go undreamed of.

So often I inhale your cathartic cocktail;
it swoons me from my study, my brain trails.
Homogeneous with my velvet red intertwines, all else hails.
All exhales whisper, loftily, a separate tale.

Your embers are like no other;
they glow of yesteryear and retract into the present.
The warmth and the darkness, you segment.
Each draw, intoxicating, one after another.

Like a con artist you remain vague, and disappear;
any remaining inflection sails beyond the oculus;
presence constant, but hueless.
Those unacquainted always sneer.

Knowing not, your gift is of the most diverse;
but, in the end, like all else, your essence is a curse.

The gleaming pair of crimson red eyes reflect nothing but suffering.
While it's true that those sulfur feathers take flight,
tear holes in the wind, and pierce the night sky,
it's only to get your attention.

Does he have your attention?
He knows he has your attention.
From branch to branch he stares, learns, stalks,
and casts doubt into your impressionable acumen.

You know nothing, and nothing is his forte.
You haven't caught up, but those infinite pools of blood are headed your way.
Don't be afraid, don't scurry, don't cry;
By the end of the night, you'll have seen all,
and you'll be just another in the crimson tide.

Do you see the
fall?
Do you notice the cloud of
ash?
I
Do.

Do you feel the
wind?
Does it
burn?
It
Does.

Have you the
time sir?
I can't
see the
light.
Though everything
seems
white.

This park bench gets so cold, so worn.
Sitting here
perplexed by the motions,
the grays, all in different shades;
all going
nowhere.

This bench and I, we're friends;
He's a little
quiet,
but he means well.

I've been distant lately,
removed.
I'm not sure that he
cares;
at least, he doesn't show it.

We both see things in the same way;
all the gray wisps of condensation.
Don't get me wrong,
we both
see color,
but its rummy.

we are
always going to be the
same temperature.

Worn shoes reverberate off the the time riddled sidewalk.
So many steps, impressions, connotations;
All similar but singular.

Straight lines cut and dash,
but their destination is predetermined.
Together, yet, alone.

The tree leaves create dips of cool compression;
made of quasi forms, flowing with rivers of chlorophyll,
but, still, diametric in standard.

I'm encompassed by all, but amidst none.

I've been gazing off in the distance,
watching the pine sway;
trying to decipher how time
so quietly
slips away.

The cliff on which I stand has
carried for sometime those without a
path, care, or reason to mount this
incline.

There's such a sharp point up here at the zenith;
such a cumbersome distance between the ground,
and the mind.
The height leaves me curious and inquisitive for sometime.

Without wings it's an obstacle.
A vantage point without advantage;
so
hard the
bleak feelings are to
manage.

Maybe I can fly; it wouldn't hurt to try.
Just one step forward and glide, or
shed a fearful tear and
cry.

I've lost certainty being here,
dislodged
time; will I commit the unthinkable, and try?
Unspeakable, this flight and fear;
like an indistinguishable, monotone chime.

I made up mind long ago;
flight or
not,
this is no
crime.

Now I look down upon this ridge and
fail to
see anything but the
abyss.

Four slender pine planks cloak the mountain side,
peaking over the cascading evergreens,
hosting my curious eyes,
drifting beyond the foreseeable horizon.

Sunshine fades into twilight,
Mountains dim into obsidian,
Eagles swoon into the swaying masts of lumber,
Lamplight expands my dominion.

Quill in hand I inscribe whispers of the wind,
Speaking of some long forgotten loved ones,
Forever lingering in undiscovered caves,
waiting, waiting only to be ignored.

Their cries echo to the precipice,
Wilting in the breeze,
Only to be uttered, fleetingly, among the tide torn seas,
waiting, searching for man to hear their pleas.

As my pages croak for a sealing kiss,
The gusts give way to a lucid stall,
Taunting of the morrow,
My regard lulls into a fall.