Sadness cleaves
to malicious
              intentions.
Clotted grins seep,
          fuchsia petals
descending from smiling grins.

No ones gets the humour,
           as balloon machetes
cleave sorrows from faces.
    His smile drips from
           a joke not gotten
                      a jester of death smiles.

Ashes of life permeate
       through shallow tides,
weakening as shores of
                   white undercurrents
collect stagnantly on white shingles.

Corroded within each grain
          that swallows all hope of
                                          elongation.
Life is a moment crumbling to an
inevitable ending, buried beneath times silt.

Incroch on the nest of
              My giving and I will
collect your bones
     and soil upon them.

For where there is grace
    There is also the seathing
Retribution of my thoughts
      And I will bury you unmarked.

The winter is slowly killing her
and me
but on the deck by her side
at the low tide
the river at three is a sparkling glass
feeding a belief
there would be no end of us.

where the dark night of the soul
                                                        ("ha­lf-seen on the edge of air")
                  meets
the dark soul of the night   which
                                                        ("f­rom the throat of cosmic vortices")
                  stands in
the charred ashes of surrender
                                                      (­"like a jack-lighted deer")
                   greeting.



c. Roberta Compton Rainwater 2014