A one-eyed man
can be a King
or condemned

in the land
of the blind

It's yours, baby
sip a little
chug a lot
throw it in the river
or polish out the spots

Break it
melt it
paint it
cap it with a candle
or fill it up again
with *****
or perfume

Because it's yours, baby
no deposit
no return

She thought she felt
the world
crumpling all around her
falling in pieces
darkening her skies
suffocating all the joy
within her

And when she felt
the heavy
blanket of despair
draped wearily
upon her
tears began
flowing into pools
beneath her
and she began
floating on
dissolving grief
within her

And then she felt
nothing
of the pain inside her
nothing
of the time that stalked her
nothing
of the ragged skin that enveloped her
nothing
of the memories that haunted her

Until she felt
a new shape
forming in the darkness
tenderness
spreading from her fingertips
embracing her shoulders
caressing her cheeks
as her lashes fluttered
at dimly sparkling rays

And then she felt
her limbs
stretching from confinement
her lips
drinking in sweet breath
her eyes
seeing past imagination

A new beginning
emerging
in a familiar
world slowly

Like the dusted wings
of a painted lady
unfolding to the skies

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts

and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door  
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore

all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets

He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound

He was chomping on a dog
a chili dog to be exact
when he heard a crunch
and felt a pain that seemed
unusual to his lunch

So with all the grace
that he could muster
he spit out all the dog
and the chili and the mustard
then smiled a toothless grin
when in the chili he could see
a bicuspid mixed therein

He had been waiting for this day
to the point where almost all
his nerves had frayed and
more than all his hair had grayed

But now he knew for certain
there would be no final curtain
for at least another act
because his bicuspid
had given way
to his third set of teeth

Black holes are only temporary
says Stephen Hawking in reverse
and the deathly grip of gravity
is released before finality
extinguishes identity
from the Universe

He must have found that memory
can survive a voodoo curse
and bring back sanity to
a world of unreality
before some tragedy
takes you away
from us

As fire spread
across the break
and down the face
of the next hill

he rose silhouetted
against the blaze
and turned to say
he would be back

before the wind
after the calm

He gathered up his gear and
clambered down the ridge
to clear the valley wall
as far as he would dare

as embers rained like fireflies
inside the flakes of falling snow

And when the storm erupted
swirling all around him
he turned again
this time to say
he would be there

after the wind
before the calm