An ash is at her every root
and one is at your every end.
The press of wisdom's swift pursuit,
an ash is at her every root.
She burns to girls of ill repute
with remedies time does not mend -
an ash is at her every root
and one is at your every end.
Poetry: December 2004 Archives
We don't bedizen time and space
But stride apart, dissolve, erase.
Effaced negation's fashion drawn
Not overlooked, what's undergone.
The pseudo-smiles caked in chrome--
He drives me there, but never home.
We're caffeinated drunks without
The strength of will to seek us out.
Proximity may lie outright;
Unbalance sleeps with him at night.
And never strength within I meet
To tie it tight. Rings incomplete.
We choose amiss, and miss select
What's wrong is right. The void correct.
So soft, so near the shell he speaks--
We're measured now, in days and weeks.
I hide beneath this dark marquis:
He sets the bait, but not for me.
(Originally posted August 19, 2004, before I switched content management systems.)
Could then, a weary soul try to appease
a mind gentler, and ease that which upsets?
The wonder at projected silhouettes
Illusions of these common vagaries?
Now forced astride by lingering regrets
and erring only in intent to tease
the dilute taste of blood lost underseas
in desperation, clings to but vignettes.
Romantic notions left behind, forgone
Perfection past in both the mind and heart
Where truth is lost in justly lives withdrawn.
But savage children ever seek beyond
To seek what mothers care not to impart
To love, to wish, to reach, to pass it on.
