The topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide.

From low to high it's all washed clean
Footprints, castles and trails alike
Unetched slate of flat leveled sand
Grains aligned by blessed wave strike.

From high to low it's all exposed
Fragments, jetsam, seaweed entwined
Littered, scattered on shore amuck
The sting of empty shells combined.

Yes, the topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide
From low to high and high to low
A gloriously exhausting ride.

He created it free hand with a shackled mind and misplaced the key in a pocket he never did like reaching into. Creating a decadent falsity as it kidnapped the truth to a place begging too high a ransom. He only painted with his heart, something he had been perfecting his entire life. Drawing blood to draw with blood left him light in the head and weak in the knees though he kept painting on the canvas, and with passion and ache paint till his palette became parched. A masterpiece he would say while others saw naught but a blank canvas no matter how hard he tried making them fall in love. Though something was missing, something had always been missing but what? He lost himself days on end working to make the beauty in his mind a reality. The days turned into months while the months turned into seconds.  He was pulled to the dangerous place he had always pushed away, squeezing the very last drop his heart could bare until the heart itself became bare, ceasing to move. Before he could make the final stroke he fell weak onto the frosty floor, laying in the shadow of the canvas. With tired eyes and  a vacant heart he finally understood the missing element to his masterpiece. And with his final breath, the last thing his eyes would ever see in this world was the canvas . . . completely empty as the man he became.

(inspired by "Gifts of the Most High" by G Alan Johnson.)

The crows know me, and I, in their untamed glares,
and wild, accepting, onyx eyes find a solace.

No need for ID, for they’ve been watching me,
my face, yet unetched by time and life's own artistry,
is a passport for their uncivilized and predatory attention.

The corvid and I are kindred in many ways.
We've all scavenged for fortune's scraps,
shared the sting of bitter winter snaps,
and feasted on the meager leavings of the day.

In this dark pact, of watcher and watched,
a silent truth is proclaimed, that all that’s done
beneath the sun, is seen by dark, intuitive,
discerning, if not caring or humanly wise eyes.

The carrion crows know me,
and those feathered sentinels of air, mark
my coming with raucous, heralding cries.

They gather, black against the sun-kissed sky,
in councils held upon the wind's swift motions,
like children, they argue - observing still - as they play.

They causa no fear, but someday I’ll disappear,
unraveled, bit by bit, not by malice from on high,
but by beaks and claws, to caws they mantric-like cry.

Perhaps death really does have an ebonite beauty
and, like angels, his servants have wings, and pick us apart
when our time is through - and those sharp bills come due.

It's winter again, or perhaps it stayed,
In shadows long where sunlight frayed.
The frost still clings to windowpane,
And silence hums its soft refrain.

The clocks are slow, their whispers gray,
The days dissolve, the nights decay.
A breath, a cloud, a fleeting ghost,
A chill that haunts the quiet host.

The trees stand bare, their arms outstretched,
Like memories lost, or dreams unetched.
The snow, a shroud on weary earth,
A cradle cold, a frozen birth.

Oh, was there spring? Did summer sigh?
Did autumn paint the twilight sky?
Or is it true, as hearts suspect,
That winter stayed, and we forget?

'Tis winter once again, or so it's true—
The cold, the stillness, feels like you.