my cigarette is burning, and then snow is ice,
the world is turning itching with lice.
with a rumble and scurry out go the lights
capturing the days in unyielding nights.

my lungs contract suffering in toxic prayer
wisps of thin vapor make shapes of air;
like a cold touch lifting the flesh from your heart
this apt villain conceals its rending art.

through guise of pleasure this vice ensnares
a feeling laced with pleasure and none compare,
and into death I will follow the twiney smoke
for it pulses my body with a lovers stroke.

A voice fills the chamber of no sound
bouncing off the interior like weightless rubber.
The feeling of fatigue passes;
raising up in pitch the voice begins to choke.

The inhabitant of the chamber weeps,
wrapped tightly in its arms, rocking soothingly,
perhaps at the center in this chamber of no place.
Sickly, in the high voice of a child it wails.

There are no moments here, no passing time
memories of another left to sleep,
the chamber may only close its doors
and those inside may only know despair.

My dear I love you

As though the wind would never touch the Earth again;
the sweet sting of farewell riding its back
longing and precious as it sings for the last time.

The last tree is fading from the land with no wind
to be taken back into the fold of ashes


and when it is broken all the rest will follow.

Words to despise
words to please,
words in disguise
and words in the trees.

It fades in the quiet
yet here it remains,
proof of the riot
clear as the rains.

This living soul
gives in completely
to love's divine toll,
singing sweetly.

Wondrous thy form
for it so teaches
the touch to be warm,
and softly it reaches

over the heart
and into its rooms.
Words from the start
wearing costumes.

Only the moon shines in the dark hours,
a sun long set closes the flowers.
The heat of summer razes the frost
and no teasing lover goes uncrossed

Focused under the dark lens of night
heat rules all driving poets to write

On the wind rides a melody of closing
the shift of the seasons already imposing,
but summer's passion the virtue own
secrets the fall cannot atone.