What forlorn nights this lonesome poetry begets.
My voice, attuned to solitude, sings a desolate duet.
The only voice that answers mine is baritone regret;
and yet
I wear my words upon my head: a gaudy coronet.

dry as a beggar's over-parched throat
as an over-burnt piece of blackened rye-toast
as the golden sand in Sahara roast
was the air o' the day of the black death-note

as the air crackled with the laughter of death
and claimed the millions as it left bereft
daughters of the earth their heart a-cleft
from the breath of the devil with the head of Macbeth

Houses, untenable, ditched searing memories,
Turned sarcophagi from life and its treasuries
Scorched skeletons of sagas and histories,
Of family feuds, celebrations and victories,
Of open secrets and whispered mysteries,

Years of toil blest by gold sunbeams,
The laughter of babes and the giggle of teens,
Now fractured windows and ash blackened beams,
Skeletal remains of life and its dreams.

I stand here translucent
Shine through me sunlight
Finish my portrait, colour my grays
Until no shadows remain