The ravens catch wind of my secrets,
Hidden words veiled from light.
A ghost wandering through the yard,
A frantic hand scrambles for his pen.

Specter that drifts among all,
The sleep walker slouches with
The rest, but life had long lost
It’s interest.

Eyes of lemur, tilted to the side
As if to inquire the dark.
Inward voice and scattering wind
Dry leaves blown down the empty street.

Ghost man with his ghost hands
Greek warriors in their horse, invading Trojan Lands.
Thoughts reaching sky and the stars
Sending their replies, condolences.

A plane of faces turned upside down,
Somewhere along the trail to the Underworld.
The long corridor stretches indefinitely,
Torches spread sparsely along the walls.
The spiraling stairs push deeper on.

“Do not look back, he said
Do not looked back!” He thought.
Terror struck, for he remembered clearly
the lessons the hushed voice had taught.

A grief struck chord plucked from within,
As his sobs began to form.
“Oh, the fool I am!” He cried,
“Why could I have not held my gaze,
Held my vision steadfast
To the closing morning rays?”

As he reached the bottom,
He readied his lyre
And stuck strings in frenzy dire.
Rounding the corner to the banks of flowing Styx,
He saw the same creatures he once tricked.

Determined eyes and sure hands,
He struck the chords at the essence of man.
But this time the creatures lining the Styx,
Were not so surely bewitched.

They closed nearer, vicious growls upon their lips.
Back met stone, an exit long gone.
“The song had always worked,” cried the desperate man, words falling on unhearing ears.

Yes, his tune had always worked,
But not twice tonight.
To mortal love you have given your life,
For you cannot fool Pluto twice.

On sun-filled days with few clouds,
We pray for just one to pass and
Provide that sweet shade, offer
A reprieve from the sweltering heat.

But deep in those lonely nights,
With bone chattering chill and the darkness blinding,
We claw the skies, searching for the cutting
Beams of moonlight.

Blinding light with hands outstretched
A silhouette dances on the horizon.
It beckons me, with hinting grin etched lips,
To follow, so I grip her hand and on we fly.

Soft warmth caresses my skin as the light surrounds,
Harp song flows as smoothly as river sound.
Eyes turn and smiles break
Carving the faces of paint I've seen
In my visions of the Sistine.  

Those high walls stagger above me,
But the gates stand ajar.
The moat forded and oak doors entered
But no harp song drifts within these walls.

Cold stone meets feet as my
Hand bearer retreats.
A gaze cast back, met with doleful eyes
And a nod to enter on.

So on I cast my senses,
Until upon an ornate throne they rest.
Crafted in shimmer, white with golden hues,
Hand rests embedded with artisan jewels.

A throne worthy of Zeus,
Yet skies of lightning do not greet.
The seat sits vacant,
Webbed stones of an owner long gone.

In a fit I turn,
The light fading from those arching windows.
I reach out for the hand,
A clawing search for reassurance
But solitary I stand,
In this abandoned Palace of eternity
With a vacant throne so grand.

Single entities we are,
alone in our galleys
sailing solemnly along the vast expanse
of this glittering sea.

Our eyes meet along the waves,
but both are veiled,
caught within our ferries,
a barrier between.

But if my boat meet water
as does yours
are we not connected
with hands used as oars?

The crisp air pressed to the breast of that dewy morn',
A piercing of the skin by the rosiest of thorns.
Thorn to skin, blood to air,
A soft ebbing of life from its lair.

Venous roads and capillarous tunnels,
A captured path in which life is shuttled.
That ****** thorn that interrupts its flow,
Allows life to meet that soft morning's glow.