Ney, I am the break
That nets a setting sun.
Beak of swalllows
Into turpentine waters,
Behind  the glare of
The watching fern,
A whisper in the winding
Shade turning in itself....

In the remains of the day
Watching the meeting
And the stare of eyes
Stealing the fleece of gold
From unborn skies.

I was in the journey,
The road never taken
Dissolving regrets,
Finding myself in
The sorrow and knowing
A path less known
Through the glory of suffering.....

In the desolation
Hope stayed in a box,
In the different he became
The crescent tender
In a straight hell:
And then the nocturnal
Came and took him to
The poem of future prisons
And the Dedpoet became
A violent misconception.

Sleep nocturne:
The poet lay the man down,
And the poet will never know peace,
Because peace was disturbed.
And Dedpoet became a silence
In the desolation,
Wandering, wanted.....
On the run
And his poems numbered.

The cygnet scorns the swan
And swims in ever wider circles.
Downstream roars the waterfall
And overhead a falcon swoops.
             ljm

Dust of dawn, red of sun
Hell bent on losses winning
On chances.

I am the discoursed wind flowimg
Like waters edge
Over lost eyes and questions
Remain,
Silence happens
And laced within the legend
Of never was.

Why didnt I?
Haunted happens too.