You are drifting,
Cool waters underneath,
Star-speckled siftings-
Calling, still calling
To sink, to give in,
To succumb, to drown, so easy
So simple.
The stars, too, reach for you
Always in sight, always singing
Praises of unattainable heights.
You’re so close,
So soon you’ll be there,
That impossible there,
With them, unreachable
The choir twinkles.
Just stop drifting,
Just stop sinking,
Stop doubting –
And rise.

Blue Moon

There’s a blue moon tonight-
Which has nothing to do with the color of the moon,
‘Blue’ just refers to the fact that it’s a rare occurrence.

I wish when I was feeling blue,
It was just a rare thing, too.

The Prince of Parties

There was a time, before I slipped the shackle of common sanity, when I was a biology student toiling in the dusty subterranean laboratories of Hexford University, back in the decade that now bears the outright odorous appellation ‘The Naughty Aughties.’ Hexford was a small school that sprouted nearly overnight in the decay of another less notable public university, though some curse must have lingered in the campus’s bones as the school lay again abandoned by the end of that year. In those days, I was possessed of an uncertain timidity typical of the unproven scholar and spent the majority of my time secluded in the study of various cultivars. I am not ashamed by the admission that a solitary digit could number my friendships in that place, and how our companionship was tenuous at best. Continue reading “The Prince of Parties”

In The Grim, Dim Evening

The gardens gleam with roses, the sun is setting soon
By the statues in their poses, I’ll await you ‘neath the moon.
The shining stars will totter, as the wind wafts from the bay,
With scent of wine and water; Oh, where have you gone to-day?

Spy the marble busts around me, grinning suitors in their prime
“Oh, accept this ring and love me!” she can hear the wedding chime.
Sculpted hearts swiftly beating, he approaches, holds her tight
The statues’ lips are meeting, two more lovers in the night.

For countless golden ages have the seraphs stood unaltered,
In warmth and windy rages, neither angel failed nor faltered
Oh, but we who are as permanent as an urn of unbaked clay
Should fear to face the firmament; where have you gone to-day?

The Temple’s chimes are stinging, for the marriage month has passed,
I hear the choir’s singing, and the drummer’s mournful blast;
And when song gives way to longing, and the drumming skips a beat,
The wretched warbled wronging of a passing raven’s tweet.

Little joy I have to gain, and less yet left to lose,
My hope a wretched blain; it seems I must refuse
To outlast the lamenting hour in the stretching evening gloom
While the lilies are in flower and my misery abloom.

And as Death strummed his meter, and away my spirit flew
What sadness could be sweeter than the joy I shared with you?
For to-day, absent bliss, only suffering and sorrow,
I will face, in the abyss, no new mourning on the morrow.

(Inspired by “In the Early, Pearly Morning”)