In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang’d with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
   But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
   Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

I stand above my bed
And examine the damage.
Blankets this way and that
Pillows all over
Sheets tangled up around themselves.
Proof of something that
Only hours ago
Left this place empty.
I take in the rubble
And breathe deeply.
I lower myself down to those
Tangled sheets
And backwards bedspreads
And fill my lungs with you.
I pull them up around me
And close my eyes
And wish for this place to be
The same kind of battleground
Again tomorrow.

It's knocking.
Inviting me to come in.
Not demanding.  That won't happen till later.
Right now, we're all on best behavior.
It's calling me,
The satin, silk, and cashmere of well chosen words.
Painting a picture of possibility and promise.
Implausible pay, promotion and perks
Pursuing the path, pursuant to plan.
It's inviting me in,
And reminding me that this was my idea.
But to what, I am not as certain as I was.
Or perhaps I'm just a little afraid.
Are those tingles excitement or premonition?
Warning or inhibition?
It is calling me.
It 's calling me forward, or so it says.
I think it's forward; hard to tell direction some times,  
amidst a fog or bright lights.
But I hear voices behind me too.  
Calling me back, whispers of doubt, hints of inadequacy.
That's weird, but there's cheering too.
Oh, the blessings of being loved!
It sounds familiar.  Those voices have been quiet for some time.
Are they mine?
I think it's about time both choruses were heard again.
It's knocking.  I'm walking.
Headed for the door.

Wandering paths ask for a dying cloud-drought
One black with the heart of darkness, devout.
A blooming earthly sunrise follows a fountain
and walks with her vices, talking to a mountain
Hope of finding you there, with bitter mnemonic
standing restless, alone in uncommon bucolic.

She proceeds to see with a call for rain
as fog blankets us, sunlight slowly wanes.
Lost in haze, could of sworn water fell genuine,
closing eyes swallow you whole, the medicine.

Bleeding out your scabs until the scars define you.
Your sighs confine you; itching to disperse.
Your spark is pity but the
dance of the flame exposes you.
The burn ignites upon you alone.
Even your shadows flee,
the drink awaits the final flood.
In death may you find your calling.

She left as the snows came,
draining with her footfalls the
silhouette of the skyline,
damning the sunrise to the banish of winter.
Unto the tomorrow deserved
was the logic of yesterday,
unmindful of the toll and vaguely-minded
of the benefits-potential,
aware only that mere steps beyond the horizon
lay that made-sacred destinatory-goal:
the other.