Within and in between
a dusty red brick chimney,
and a tired aging oak,
do advance the clouds of
brilliant ember,
cascading over one another, eager
to wash the field of azure
while a gentle roll of
thunder
bids goodnight from afar.
How we wish that the
weary hourglass
would squeeze each grain,
so that raindrops
-- having just settled among
emerald blades -- would
glisten for a lifetime,
while the world remain bathed
in a candle-lit hue.

If ivory keys could speak,
they would certainly say,
"I have loved but
have not lost,"
and in a tune recite
the strictures of affection in a
broken world lacking in colored,
auburn hair,
sky blue eyes,
a sought-after commodity for which
I have wrung myself
bone-dry of self respect,
for dignity (much like cliches)
is for the birds
apparently.

The game only ends
when the pawn looks back,
and sees his Queen
is white as well.

Would you stand where the sea
meets the night sky;
among the sands of waning
centuries,
and face an onyx curtain while
oblivion laps at your soles?
Where is but the moon to tell
where the cresting waves break free
of a dimly speckled sky?
Look you sleepless soul,
and see the smallest flicker on the
hidden horizon;
perhaps the kindly Fisherman
has set alight his lantern, but
can you trust your imagination?
Swim.

Will you smile when we meet?
Will you carry me
far away,
from the melancholy strings,
the wistful tears?
What secrets your embrace could tell,
in silence I would imagine.
You know me,
and though I'm loathe
to appear so foolish,
curiosity hath bought your face
before my eyes
on every day and
sleepless night,
while I ponder what it means
to stand on the edge of the plane
of all that is,
while the breeze of an angel's breath
rocks me forward,
past return,
with only a fleeting glance over my shoulder,
to remember and comfort,
in an instant too short to ask
whether the void is oblivion.

For how many wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
might one purchase a modest affection?
How many tears,
fallen from the soiled nib
of a pen held like
a dying cigarette,
warrant an instant's embrace
in a stale, sun starved night?
The wind cares not for where it blows
but lightning avoids the
hopeless romantic,
sitting in a warm candle glow
beside a broken music box,
writing on a page as white
as ****** snow.
Tiny notes fall like drops
of spoiled honey,
while a deft hand waltzes
alone,
weaving a tapestry to
conceal the crack in the wall.
He's counting wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
before the locked doors of a store
long forgotten.

On the West Side of a flagpole,
In December's later breaths,
The wind whipped Winter's white quilt
Burnishing words, words, words,
From the ***** metal monument.
Knives and pens had etched
Their love into malleable matrimony
Beneath the flicker of that flag,
But the etchings became wishes
Of Winter's White Wedding.
My fingers grazed the forgetful frost
As muscle memory recalled
A pair of initials and an addition sign.
Fresh drops of condensed ice
Hung within the ridges
Of our four lettered addition problem.
I exhaled a condensed breath
Which sifted towards the pole
then dissipated.  
I glanced over as the moths
Attacked the only streetlight
Causing flickers of light
In the starless night sky.
A half second stare
Was a half second too long;
I looked back at the iron pole,
And the letters were gone.
A white wash of frost
Mixed with my exhale,
Covered the West Side of the flagpole.
Pockets of wind snapped in the flag.
I peered up at the streaks of crimson
And field of blue whipping in misery.
The seams of the flag's fabric
Became weathered and torn,
As I walked away from the flagpole—
Tired of dreaming in the stars.