Sepia is that burnt orange color of old
Postcards;  Of things remembered and
Still treasures of memories fading and
Almost forgotten that once were in a
Now exhuberant, that could not imagine
That it was was passing.passing before
Our eyes.  Even nowing into darkness
Where all of our treasures are buried

In the approaching twilight
My bedroom is a golden citadel
I hear the children playing like a
Song of many birds varied, ,mottle
Repeated cries and answers tireless
Before the coming of darkness.  It is
A forever sound of busy happiness
Signifying nothing but eternal  time
That the children know will never end.
Soon the darkness will call them home.
But why do I stay in my golden room
Listening.  Why do I not go out and join
Them in their joy-because here I can hear
Their poetry; hear their joy; Be their poet
In the eternal present still I hear their cries
In the village of long ago I remember you

For my Sister Sue Remember me.

Never kiss or touch me
keep them few

Never want to hold me
till it’s true

Never give me anything
unless it’s you

Never say I love you
till you do

your eyes still look familiar
but the looks they give me now are foreign

The cold moon breaks through the crevices
and where do I hide?
there's nothing to haunt my mind
but only the guilts inside.

Told not to venture into the night
I braved in the power of moonlight
where every shadow was a ghost
every dark nook a lost coast.

If I had someone with me
it wouldn't be all that scary
but I left them on the way
thinking I wouldn't need them anyday.

The loves I betrayed
the souls I traded
descended behind the tree
like the waning moon.

Before long the dark would devour me
knowing, I moved down with the moon
with none but the sighs on my side..

The derelict offered no place to hide.