fear is a tiny seed
planted in my lower belly.
my thoughts fuel the seed
to sprout with gentle ease.
its roots are finally free,
wrapping around my feet,
never letting me flee.
it grows into a nimble tree
whose branches strangle me.
the tree wears prickly leaves
that sting my aching body
until my eyes succumb to sleep.

Once upon a time
these many years ago

I never dreamed
I would be the one

The face in broken
mirrors with the ****

A lone voice whispering
A call out in artic ice

The nighthawk's spirit
Dive and flash

Over and over
again and again

In darkness sure
swift and enveloping

I guess you never know
No , remains the mystery

Hush ! I'm listening
Waiting on the voice

Can you hear it ?
The Midnight's Voice ?

(Sigh)

It's been so long
so very long .

I lay the shackles of time
at my feet
Every day/link a witness
to the futility
and the uncertainty
of the doom we are
determined to meet

It's my moment
to whorsip the silence
When the nothingness
rages deep within my
darkest soul

People speaking without
the vibrations of truth

Whose mental motions
are bound to the rusted loops of determination

The digital hacksaw bytes
the grooves of litany
sending shivers of silver through the cloud of crystal clarity

I lay the shackles that
denoted my existance
at my feet and step over
the finality forever

For silence will be my final refuge . Let me lay down in ground and pull the gray clouds over me and go to sleep forever

Chums are settling
in the back room
of the Feast House ~
post and beam
ember dreams
gray fog fingers
and draping fiords
holding patron's gaze

Dandan is nestled
in a fireside chat
(with a song from Jeremy
playing from
the high rafter)
sail east
and greet the dawn
young man,
distant shores
are converging

Old habits
die hard
for the Great Dane ~
whistling tunes
in a somber minor,
baritone sounds and
orchestra strings
rising from a
distant, muted choir

Ruby lips
and finger tips
scour the
cockeyed soiree
the safe house
is old
and rendered,
but well
worth noting

Filling jars
with pickled pears,
the specialist
weeds the
white maggot
and siphons his
favoured grog

"...shackle the outhouse
my mates!
the foreign scrum
is bolting!"