no more, your crushing words uttered
only the vacancy of a hollow left shuddered  
a final gasp of dead air swallowed
our friendship lost down an ever
silent river, only thoughts
circling, meander deep
they bore their way
into the heart
an ache

It was only ever flowers, in a meadow wild
tangled tendril vines, of blue eyed passiflora
caressing stems of blooming heart, delicate dicentra
shining silver in early summer, a pond of silken mirrors
leafy vines of garland rings, nature weaved
perfectly a tranquil scene of bonny swans
float silently amidst fallen petals
soft nests of downy feathers, wispy on the winds
that a woodland summer drifts on

you are gorgeous in turquoise blue
a swirling oxidation, transformation of warm reds
you are ocean water colors, deep in rocks, in canyon waterfalls
like the changing light of eyes, chameleon colored
ancient, elemental
essential

Today walking the cut off road, home
watching clouds and birds disappearing
all these moments of coming, going
I came upon feathers of a flicker, brightest orange
and further on the road, his body
and wondered of his dying
and if he was freer in death
or in flying

Of my own life I pondered
the fleeting moments of freedom
so much lost in the sinking sun of youth
difficult to find amidst a hurried life
fewer and farther in between
to breathe, a restless mind
settling in a silent stream
and when shall come the hour
a moment to be free

Ilion Gray, such a cool name
I love the name Ilion - Ilion Gray
I wonder is it his real name
it looks like it could be, his name
though I've never known an Ilion
never read poems by any other Ilion's
his name fits perfect, his poems, exquisite
and today I see him posted on the front page
a prince of words, a master, a sage
I think he lives in NY, probably downtown
I bet it's loud, I love the way he writes like that
I wonder what kinds of things he does, in summer
or winter, I know he has a cap, but does he have coat and gloves
I wonder how many times, he fell drunk in love
he probably reads poetry on a stage, a pastiche word parade
a lyrical brigade, loaded and fired, finishing with a bow
yeah, I bet Ilion is writing a killer poem right now

Deathly quiet all the sky, distant black, pitching
birds, sudden screeching turns, disappearing
windows rattled, beneath banging shutters
awaiting the pain of centrifuge
a house, like glass to shatter
shards of cutting winds

Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing