Resenting the light,
from the Olympian,
that warms my wool.

It cowards behind holly,
that grows in the pine grove.
Retreats to shaded cold,
below timber arms.

It is disgusted to the sight,
of white, yellow and orange.
Prefers the blue of night.

As it fades, flows and steeps.
It becomes clear,
pillaged of its white veneer.

Though, it carries forward,
like a grudge that won’t melt away.
Or is it more like love,
ever changing.

Or even as stubborn,
as a cold bedded love.
That brings life to you,
at least once a year.

But, in the end
it recedes.
Into the wood,
from under the holly.

Then waits,
until you’ve almost forgotten.

Sun ached to rise,
above the jagged horizon.
It lit the shadow,
of stone work,
of your craftsmanship.
It stood high,
strong and everlasting.
A stone giant,
held together with assumption.
Assumption of him,
the prince that you seek.
Recently one has followed,
to the top where you lie.
He said the verse,
a promise, an assumption.
He would mend the holes,
patch the sides.
As time rhythmically passes,
the tower would stand,
strong and eager.
Until your assumption,
is not yet reality.
The one that followed,
sometime ago,
has left with the moon.
As your eye tears,
the tower leans,
crumbles.
The salty liquid,
corrodes your assumption,
that is often set in stone.
I watch from afar,
knowing the outcome.
I tread among the emotion,
overflowing and scattered around.
As your kin, your brother,
I help to pick up the pieces.

Eyes glazed,
Darkness painted about the room.

Waking, to a humble friend,
at the foot.

You in the next,
I can hear through the plaster.

I keep silent,
not to the disturb the moment.

I listen, to your scrambling,
to perfect the art.

You have left,
just moment ago.

Waking elegantly even,
when soaked in morning.

I smell the concave,
the shape of you.

I listen to you,
as you get ready.

Sounds tell of each step,
as you struggle to keep silent.

How I love, need, want
these taps

It reminds me of little things,
that I keep note.

These are things,
that I savor.

The perfect little things,
of you.

I, seek
that crest in clouds.
A mountain of time,
awaits my feet.

This defeated path,
has peaks of highs and lows.
Some descend beyond the crust,
into depths of unknown.

The tracks I lead and leave,
void not others.
But, stray far from the norm,
each step soon becomes my own.

As I climb, the steps awake,
in the land and mark fate.
These steps can’t be wiped away,
instead they freeze.

One wrong step,
could prove to be my last.
Even ******, I climb,
over each obstacle.

It is endless, it seems.
The time spent,
day after day lifting each foot.
Trying to live in moment.

Or, I could let my feet rest,
let them stop and settle.
But, longing will still plague,
my soul, my being.

So I seek the endless,
shroud that towers over.
I will continue,
the fight, my fate, my journey.

russets ides adorned
the fall branches
mellow were their tones
bespeaking of a rich vintage
of a summer past
warmest did come
thence it did depart
in fields and avenues  
where Rembrandt's
brush colored
the canvas in ruddy hues
autumn tones
did on a November wind
bring its rouge

I, was the one
whom he was with.
Our glances reminded us
of summer sweat
and silk fingers.
Weaving together
as we both kept
the grasp as we raced.
Blurred laughter,
from one scene to
the next.
Giddy as children,
catching frogs, in
mid summer.
She, was the one
whom I was with.
During the equinox
of changing color.
The brush of leaves
fell, from high above.
As we embraced the
gentle morning.
Before each pupil,
left for the day.
I watched, from two
rows down.
It was the last year.
The last my eye met,
your profile.
That day you left.

Now…

You are whom I was with.
Long ago under canopy,
each afternoon to
climbing dusk.
With our glances,
as you give gesture of greeting.
I can see it in your eye,
that you remember me.

Wrapped and tied by time.
I felt it seep,
into the world around me.
Always taking never giving.
As it absorbed… slowly.
It pushed the pins,
of the past into the realm,
of my present.
To escape the things,
I store away.
Lids of my sight close,
to view an asian forest.
Riddled with bamboo,
with filter of green and dusk
I feel myself sleeping,
near coy and a soft brook.
I dreamt I was a white wolf
in a green asian forest.  
Hunting my brother.
The wolf dark with time.
He was where darkness seeks,
to infect and seep.
I feel myself breathing,
deeper and deeper.
Slowly, the darkness around,
lifts enough and calms.
Stillness, and the light song of evening.
I feel myself calming, breathing,
and letting go.