An old house sits in the deep-wood heart
of the ancient forest-fen.

It's crumbling stones fall farther 'eryday into
the appointed state of sad decay.

But why?! For does not the hope of man rest
upon 'ery brick atop another, on 'ery cottage,
'ery palace, 'ery shack in misty glen?

For these are the  bricks of civilization, my dearest
heart.

So shore up the trembling walls, prop up the
rotting rafters! For do we not, in this one act,
prop up our tradition, our civilization, nay
very lives of the People?

But no. For see the climbing vines, creeping insidiously,
through the mossy stone wall? See the mildew on the rafter
beams, the fungi on the hearth?

We all go to the ground, whether man or beast, or stick
or stone. Whether tree or shrub or mistletoe, we all go
back to the ground.

I am old, my sweet, and I fear the day's not far,
when my lids slide closed,(or don't, who knows?)
and I'm walking Deaths cold halls.

I beg you Rose, my sweetest flower, don't put
me in the stone. Just bury me the old fashioned
way, in dirt and rotting leaves.

For I couldn't bear, to be buried there, in the cold
And crumbling stone.

"From dust I came, and to dust I shall go, at the end of things,
or at least, at the end of me."

I sit and think, of times that there were,
Of wind sighing in the leaves, and
The sunlight golden on her hair.

I look back, through the mists of time,
and I see the starlight in her eyes,
reflected brighter than the non-existent
moon.

I look back, on times of yore, and see there
a wall, old and crumbling, darkness seeping
in to poison life and joy, with the quiet sorrow
of half remembered pain.

I see her there, remembrance, turned cold and bitter,
Lies beyond those frozen gates.

They tell me to leave her, to go, to forget...
but how, when we stood there, her voice
smooth and quiet as liquid moonlight.
How, when I played for her, her tears
as shining jewels, precious, in their transparent
light.


How, when her voice, turned sharp and bitter
as broken glass, tore at my soul, how, when her voice,
broken now, and hoarse with the force of her screams,
whispered to me as she lay in my arms, blood red as holly,
warm and terrible as remembered love, remembered folly.

How, when she asked if I loved her, still, at the end of things,
even as her life drained from her, and her heart slowed its weary
work, and stilled beneath her pale breast?

How, when she had to ask, when she should have
known, the answer always...yes and yes.

I look out the lonely window, misted in the mornings cold.
I see shadows, grey and formless, out there in the sleeping
world. Still sleeping, on this grey and quiet morn. I wonder
why I feel this way, why I hate the noisy, bustling day. Why
I prefer instead, to stand here, alone and cold, and draw
pictures in the condensation, gathered from my steaming
breath. My melancholy is my oldest friend. She sits there in
the corner, content to stare, wordlessly out the misted window,
and fidget with her hair. I wonder why I have this life, why I
am not instead, a tree or rock or distant star, burning coldly,
out in the great expanse. Or even a flower, violet with the
shade of twilight, here only for a brief while, a second to
The Infinite, and then gone, blown away like chaff upon an
Autumn wind. I wish. For I am like the quiet breeze that
stirs the grasses, and raises the heads of sleeping flowers, in
the cold of early dawn. I am like a shallow pool, clear for those
with eyes to see, still as a translucent mirror, set upon those
tiny waves. People glance my way, and then continue, on
with their vibrant lives, so full of light and color, determining
in a passing glance, the frailty of life I hold, no threat, no pain.
As easily extinguished as to blot a word of faded ink.
I sit here, my melancholy by my side, hand upon my shoulder.
I wonder if it is not time, to seek some newer fresher place,
like the violet in her time. I wonder if it is not best, to leave
this faded world behind, and just....go. To leave and seek a
better clime. For after all, what's a word of faded ink, too
grey to read, so light as to be barely seen, but a thing, not far
removed, from the clean expectancy of the white beneath.
Awaiting only a ready brush, and ink, near at hand.

As much as I want to be happy,
I'm afraid I'd forget how to make words beautiful.
The most beautiful words
come from the most broken people.
And poets are the shattered ones.
If I was happy,
What if I forgot how to be a poet?