What remains in the space of death?
The crinkled mountains so resilient -
The battered shore ever-changing.
“A day full of rain”
“A net full of stars”.
In the distance, through the mist
The lighthouse rises and radiates
Warning of impending danger.
Through my fogged filled eyes
the truth pours out. A fern
begins to form.

Beyond the last breath
From the last wandering ghost;
Appears a flower of no color
Or shape.
I go there sometimes to escape.
Beneath the ravished moss covered pines
Between the sudden, golden mountains.

Summer is a snake
Crossing the smoldering road
Stretched out like an
Exclamation of death!
This moment gone forever
Screaming out onto the horizon;
The old windswept mountains
Like broken waves, frozen
In the boat shaped mirror.
All is green, and all is forsaken
Driving down this path of light.

Outside the hospital
Beneath the fathomless, burning rage of  a star. In February

The mountain rose like a wing.

An encroaching wing, like an
Owl's fateful flight, half the path

speckled in blood. Encircled by
the weight of parting, we waited
patiently, tiredly.

(Grief is but the path we blindly stumble)

Our tears, the briny residue
of electricity, poured out profusely
Like a thousand small rivers
Running wild in the desert

Yes, you think about those things
"The last time I bought this bottle of pills (you were gone)"... the mountain and its yearning. Knowing that the journey
Has been done, many times before.

What if, on the edge
Of oblivion
I spoke with golden eyes
Burning the horizon
Charting a new path forward
Through pain, joy?
What if, the mountain fell
Away into the flames
Of eternity, like the last
Embrace full of tears, sorrow?
Neigh, tomorrow the sun will
Rise, the clouds will grow
And in the thunderous chaos
Of this life, I will persist
Until the last word is spoken
The final breathe taken.

Yes the mountains in my mind
So ever rising from the horizon
Of my past, of my future
Seem to know no star, seem
To crumble in my waking, constantly.
What if, what if love held no fear
Like death, the way the stream flows
Forward and backward (remembering the rain).
The mud sun where once we came from
Rose up from the desert like a bruise
Like a black eye. And I remember passion
In strained muscles, exhaustion and composure
(the birth of an infinite healing) what if
That's how it flowed, reluctant?
The closing embrace of tears.