I still pine
       for what I’ve lost
               the promise and
                               fulfillment.

I still search my memory
                for hidden fragments
                                 of that treasure.

     Time has covered
                some of them in
                            shadows of nostalgia.

     But the flaming pain
                        still brightly burns and
                                      tears will not extinguish it.
                        ljm

Goddess of ice and steel,
she laid there
and slumbers still.

No longer needed
to retain
the powerful sword
for the
once and future King.

She snoozes
At the bottom,
mud laden dress
cluttered about
her cold pale legs,
turning to tatters
while she remains
unaged.

Once there was
a shimmering blade
that made her great
while she waited.
Now there is nothing
but wet dreams
of wizards and kings
marking unconscious time’s
passing.

No purpose
is everlasting
though she may be.

They found that lady
a millennium
or more
after the great wars,
settled like sediment
on the lake bottom,
still sleeping
while they were draining it.

Pretty pink fingers
play the ivories
that speak to me.

They used to move
more than mere thoughts.
Now, they bend me
more generously
to old aching memories.

Soft concerto,
like the fluttering
of ornate
butterfly wings
going up,
up, up,
and away
to the blinding sun.

Till, the glare
of time
takes each chorus;

Till, the piano
loses all its keys,
and all those
lovely reminiscence
are locked
away from me
for eternity.

The synapses are singed,
dead dendrites
no longer
come to life
with the chemical fire
of neurotransmitters.

Blood flow is
restricted
like it has been classified
by the FBI,
not even tiny particulates
can get through it,
all that is left
are clogged arteries
and a delicious
cheeseburger death.

The rich interwoven tapestry
that use to be me,
the strange tributaries
of plasma,
the slick switch board
that birthed
consciousness,
full bodied sensations
intertwined
with my complicated mind
making me
the cosmic being
that I am;

has slipped the restraints,
this thing lost its name
and now is labeled
Mr. Nobody,
the disconnected
butchered body
of broken flesh,
the rotting mess.

Call in the Doctor
causes the nurses all left.
Then from some
dark corner
bereft of breath
a shade stealing figure
mister death
comes to collect the debt
of life.

A ***** yellow tarp
tries to cover up
an old piano,
but the wind
exposes
little ornate roses
that someone left
to mourn
the player
who has
succumbed to death.

The ivory keys
are cracked
and caked
with a thin layer
of dust.

No one has touched
this once treasured
instrument
in over a year.

In silence
the ebony keys
plead
to be played
just one more time.

But no one cares enough
to clean and caress
the keys
with the love
that each of these
things deserve.

No one remains
who ever heard
the elderly lady
finger out
the old gospels
she played for her church

The wooden frame
breaks with the waste,
wanting the compassion
of music,
for someone to use it.

For the soft flesh
of the young grandson’s
bare chest
as he leaned in,
letting it feel
the wonderment
that radiated from him
as he sat in awe
of the majesty of it all.

But the player is dead,
and the little boy has moved on.

He will only recall
the grandeur of it all
in dreams and poetry.

The code is
encrypted
in the concrete
that has been
stained
dried crimson.

All that was in them
leaking out and about
dripping deep
dna markers.

The secret harkens
back to
the history
that birthed you.

Each chain
like a strand in
lonely islands
drifting in an ocean
of strange history.

Each particle
plugged in
its proper place
to become
part of your face.
or another attribute
that is uniquely you.

To take away
that code
would unglue
the truth.

It would rescind
the parts that
grow and mend
allowing us
to break
and remake
again
and again.

The spiral
spins in,
around,
and under
your skin.

Atoms
to cells
tissues
to organs.

Though,
such wonders grow
grand and beautiful beings,
It is only of passing fancy.

Tomorrow
it might be
the poetry of
space that makes
my thoughts swim.

This is not pain
nor is it a verse
made for complaints.
It is merely a moment,
set in refrain
that occasionally
echoes
inside of my brain.

Time to die,
let it go,
nothing matters
entropy grows,
moments pass
and will not
come back.

So, let the flesh
become itself,
let my consciousness
recede from want
and need,
let the rot seed
the world we see
and let me
finally, be free
eternally.

Exclaims the fool
please let me rest
in peace.

Don't go outside on December 31st
Don't go outside at 11:59 pm. Just
Don't go outside for cigarettes
Or round the corner for a pack of beer
Don't go outside even for a drink
Otherwise, that evening
If you step out of that door, for sure
You'll come back next year.

he scraped his knee once,
when he was young,
and began to weep as
his blood trickled onto the sidewalk

his mother cleaned him up,
rested his head upon her ever-bruised shoulder,
stroked his hair,
and sang

     hush little baby,
     don't you cry
     it'll all hurt much less
     when you die

she scraped her knee once,
when she grew old,
and began to cry as
her blood trickled onto the floor boards

her son cleaned it up,
rested her head on his sturdy shoulder
stroked her hair,
and sang

     *hush now mama,
     don't you weep
     he's long gone now so
     you can sleep