Maggots do their work
   so well --
erasing flesh
   and features.
To look upon these
   white, parched bones,
one could never know
how beautiful --
   how divine --
this creature was.
How she walked
under starry skies,
and danced to
   midsummer,
all entranced.
How in spring she
gathered bouquets of
   dogwood --
an orange poppy
behind her ear.
And in winter,
   oh winter,
how this beauty
hid amongst the
   skeleton trees,
with snow all 'round
and dainty hands
in woolen gloves.
But it was in autumn
I loved her best.
The tawny hues
highlighting her
chestnut hair.  
Running through the
   fallen leaves,
and laughing because
she loved life so very much.
Standing beneath
the crimson trees
in a gold-velvet gown,
her eyes sparkling
and the deepest brown.

Maggots do their work
   so well --
erasing flesh
   and features.
To look upon these
white, scoured bones
one would never know
how divine --
   how beautiful --
this creature was.

To this thought sparked
and to this wonder --
where did I come
   from,
and what was the
   plan?
To what rhyme,
to what reason?

An astral plane
vast beyond belief --
   or perhaps:
a grain of sand,
speckled upon a beach.

Which form or feature --
what destination?
(The beginning beguiles
   the ending.)

To this moment granted,
and to this wonder --
where did I come
   from,
and what was the plan?

I longed to die --
   to simply cease --
he showed no mercy
with savage restraint.
He talked of never being
   forgiven...
all sanity gone --
time hangs heavy
in the hidden places
of the exiles,
in the cold, morbid
relentlessness of an
unforgiving night.

Sitting, looking out
this tower's windows,
across the bay
at the city skyline.
A beautiful city.
The fog slipping
onto the island's
   tideflats.
It seems eerie --
with buildings
and industrial lights
playing hide and seek.
The bridge engulfed
by a silver, cerebral
   sea--
and the cold fog
rolling, rolling down
and back upon
   itself,
as if a stream
   of vapors
flows along the
roadways of time
   and space,
flooding the gutters
with lost loves,
   faded dreams.
the last reflections
of that secret realm
which only the eternal
fog can hide --
along with street-grided
mysteries of the city,
and the heart-of-hearts
which beats in building
    and bridge.
Street upon street
winding down
with a certain purpose,
to finally end upon
   the water's edge
where an ancient
   stairway
descends into the bay.

Summer days,
summer days --
trees offer their
   gentle canopy;
roses, full-blown
scent the air.
Lizards bask --
the humble bees
visits flower after
   flower,
their hum enveloping
on a warm afternoon.
Beetles scurry
hurriedly working
their naturnal jobs.
A ****-robin
sits upon the birdbath,
and barn swallows
dip and turn
on sky-borne currents.
An orange cat
naps in the cool
   shade
beneath the mulberry
   tree --
while butterflies
   linger
by the garden gate.
Summer days,
summer days:
this season reigns
so beautifully.

Deep within me
there is a void,
blacker-than-black
   and cavernous.
I have known this
since childhood.
The void is there,
and an emptiness
   so final
that I want to weep.
In that dark, deep
   place
my soul of soul resides ,
and it is enveloping --
this void within me:
it calls to me
in terrors of the night.
It whispers to me on sunlit
   afternoons,
when I think I am
   at peace.
I shudder, and the
skin of my eyes
   peels away.
Deep within me
there is a void,
black, so black --
and cavernous.

In golden rooms,
that faintly smell of
   hyacinths,
they sit and stare
at faceless forms,
reading poetry
long forgotten
   by man,
and handle rare
   gems
as though they
were mere stones.