A fresh gloss of aged Merlot
carved into asymmetry,
twinkling with swallowed remarks
atop layers of saliva.

How long shall it take
for dust decayed
to release its grasp
of skin unrelenting?

A bundle of sage
half-burned
rots in the ultraviolet.

Cypress woods crumble;
caress the overgrowth
underneath the canopy,
whisper affirmations
to welcome its demise.

A red chapel
frost-bitten
chapped lips
damp from snow

silent

on the riverside
resting awake
eyes closed
a shallow breath.

He strolled through shaded lanes
decorating his walls of time,
a gentle remembrance revisiting
the memories loss of hue
while floor collects dust
under tapping soles of feet.

Each day is one of unpredictability,
a meaningless forecast of the weather's
facade, too volatile to contemplate
in the midst of the browning leaves.

The hillsides, covered in a verdant green,
ripple above the river's trickling surface,
rising to the right and sinking to the left,
a cardiograph caressing a decaying heart.

It is most difficult to withstand the droughts
of summer, hastily transitioning to the blizzards
of winter before falling as the drops of Springtime
rain; even autumn at times can bring a bitter chill.

Yet the key is to take each day one at a time,
a solemn refusal to glance at climatic uncertainty,
but instead a gentle acceptance of life's sporadicity
and the fluctuating differences each morning presents.

Now again I can sleep once more
as I cling to the peace I've found at last --
no longer do my eyes struggle to close,
awaiting the dissipation of his breath
as he slowly ventures into sleep's abyss.

A nightly routine of restless evenings
awaiting the daybreak of morning sun,
a familiar comfort of light's senseful grace
caressing my wilted palms, pruned from tension,
drying underneath the ultraviolet cast from above.

At last I've discovered insomnia's antidote,
the mournful release of his quivering hand
ejecting me into a void of newfound rest;
trust is the apparatus of sleep's emergence,
and I've trusted none as I now do myself.

it finds itself
so exhausted
it struggles
to differentiate
between
its dreams,
its nightmares,
and the reality
Sun brings along
as she awakens
each morning.

Sometimes I wonder
if I'm even living at all --
is this view of the river
caressing its bending banks
just a consequence of perception,
or is there an underlying meaning
highlighting life's realism,
tangible proof confirming
our collective fear,
that we are nothing
but a miniscule deviation
in the fabric of this life.