stars spilled out from the night sky
into morning, mourning,
and
so did your skin.

please know, your
voice is
louder than any gunshot now
even as new bullets echo against
your gravestone.

There is a loneliness felt with
the snow falling
headlights reveal only
what lies ahead
perhaps winter chose for us
the easiest path

your body shifts
closer to the door
as I catch my breath
at every turn

your hands let go
for just a moment
and home feels
a million breaths away...

read from bottom to top*


down
   us
     bring
            to
               try
           they
when
        smoke
   like
     rise
We'll

Standing.
Windmill blades
turn in the sun

shredding air with ease.
The man
looks out

of the window
at the land ahead,
full of aspirations

he hopes to reach.
His wife nearby
sees the same view.

Wishes on display on
this balmy July morn.
London, far away

ticks along swathed in grey
as it did decades before.
The man hopes to return,

sit in cafés, chuckle
as men with briefcases
scuttle around like cockroaches.

Some things never change.
That's OK though
isn't it?

Here with his partner
looking out, content,
a smile appears on his wise face.

Thirty years in the past
he thinks of future times.
Still the same.
Still standing.

I sit by the window looking out
And see myself reflected
Outside the glass looking in.
Reality and illusion facing off -
Or is the window the only reality
Separating two ghosts;
Or perhaps imprisoning just the schizoid singularity
Of a self-absorbed existence?
A Rowlingesque Hogwartian mirror showing
My heart's deepest desire - myself -
A true inheritor
To the mantle of Narcissus