I was thinking
about back then
before I thought I
heard notes on
flutes made of reeds
when there was
no young bird
beating its wings
inside my chest
no light in my eyes
but this was long ago
before the shadow
of darkness came
to command the land
back when the moon
was the blind eye
of a fish in cold water
in the back of a cave.

Most nights
I reach inside
my mind
trying to unwind
those thoughts
like twist-ties
that bind
to keep the loaves
of bread
free of mold
and fresh;
un-plan the long
planned plan
of mine
to choose the time
of my demise;
and sometimes
I try to listen
closely to
the constant ringing
in my ears,
the rhythmic singing
whine and changing
tones that turn
the sadness
churning, the waves
of emotions raging
in my ocean,
blue as the bottle
kept by my bed,
sleep my quest; sleep
eternal, the rest
of death I beg, leave
me alone, leave
me one more night
of breath to breathe.

Love, I've forgotten
how to spell your name,
forgotten the taste,
the smell, the feelings,
all those things you
used to bring to mind;
no, not you, not her,
nor lovers now blurred
I've known in my life,
but you, Love, the meaning
and joy, the sweet pain
of one simple word that
I've not heard in so long
a time I can't remember.

It may be just a Picasso
blue period
I’m going through.

Or maybe it’s only
Winter’s darkness
not letting the clouds part
for the light of the Moon.

Why am I so sad at heart
whenever I write of you,
my woman of sorrow?

You, wrapped in your robe
like a blue, blue Picasso.