Tag Archives: mortality

Hourglass

What is lost with life – our possessions,
our love, our heart, our intentions

May be found again in somber hands,
outstretched to catch our sifting sands,

The grains of our time tumbling in light,
ignite like fire eager, and over bright.

While the slag that falls past those fingers,
is gone forever, the memory still lingers.

By the end, so little of what was remains;
it is not what is, but what is not that pains,

So, we shield those fragments from the outside,
with the withered parts of us that still reside,

But in this sacrifice, all the light is lost,
we can shine no more, that is the cost.

Quiet Triumph

What armor need truth?
Truth is indefensible,
indiscriminate,
indispensable.

No monsters exist beyond truths reach,
no obstacle can withstand its might,
but few fear its conquest.

For all its weight must be wielded,
and fewer still have such strength.
They speak its name,
list its dimensions,
even threaten,
but seldom brandish it;
betting everything on mere intent.

Like a young heart beneath mortality’s veil,
truth soothes with practicality,
overwhelms with certainty,
and in their embrace, reveals;

truth needs no armor.
No monster endures truth,
not even truth itself.

The Great Escape

Long tendrils languishing in fire
the coarse wind set against us, excites;
in concert, we begin to gossip and conspire.

Would it be best we act at night,
when eyes refuse to see such subtleties,
beneath the somber tones of the moon’s pale light?

Or would the day be enough to appease?
The brighter things keeping errant minds entertained,
just as flowers incite the lust of bees.

Perhaps the twilight hides our greatest gain,
the way it moves, like slurred speech,
what we do then, might seem less insane.

Or, is it that in this, no peace can be beseeched?
whenever, however, we choose to retire-
it is a bitter end we reach.

Transcendence

Beautiful you,
    I love you, for

    all your finality, for
    your outrageous irony to the banal, for
    your desperate questions, for
    your sober answers, for
    not caring that we don’t hear them.

Beautiful you,
    the compass of those abandoned
    the comfort for all great burdens
    the compromise to every cost
    the combative reply to injustice
    the end of all roads and the igniter of passions.

Beautiful you,
    oft I yearn for you to ease yourself upon me
    take me in your arms and squeeze,
    like laughs upon a deep breath
    as eager for the contents as their release;
    but I will not plead, not again.

Beautiful you,
    be always out of reach
    the distant sun that has set
    the word bound in paradox
    heard but maligned and unspoken, until
    at last,
    I have earned you.

Grow Gray With Me

The fog that hides the day as night retires,
shades of sunlight grasping for purchase
struggling in undulating swirls,
hoping to find in ambiguity, some purpose.

The rising darkness from the depths of fire
billowing into the night to throttle the stars,
like open mouths cradling soundless screams
or the profound words of a dead man’s memoirs.

The way a tree feels when bound to expire,
stripped of all its lush extravagance
the machinations of a world that brought it life,
now turned to break it beneath those same elements.

The slow pyrotechnics of stagnant air’s attire
sustained in sanguine starlight while time drifts away,
held like the pot won in a game of marbles,
careful hands celebrating their display.

The decisions we unearth in quagmire
seeking more an end than a right or wrong,
transfixed by distant familiarity
the difference lost in the chorus of the song.

The way our histories resurface as satire
courage marred by fear, the bold now timid and pale
those truths that hide in the present revealed
once pitted against the rest and placed on a scale.

The thoughts that in twilight give cause to perspire
when the permanence of absence is paramount,
trickling through the cracks in our confidence
though it is only ourselves we need to surmount.

Mortality

There is a static to the air tonight;
electric, like muscles pulled taut
alkaline-fresh wounds from a recent fight.
Who was it though that could have fought?
Has the air fought the clouds for naught?
Or a source never to be made clear,
some sharp edge swung but never caught…
This possibility is my fear.

Without the sun to burn away my plight
the night rises to plunder thoughts,
raising swords, shooting guns, causing a fright
and I forget all I was taught;
clouded sails in my mind, distraught.
Wind and fire torture them severe
and such will be my final lot…
This possibility is my fear.

Senses lost to a nightmarish delight,
one means to an end my heart sought
while the rest of the body fills with spite
throwing away what gains I’ve bought
to harvest the pittance time wrought
as angry as a failed pioneer
with no use for the tools they brought…
This possibility is my fear.

Though all I’ve done is all I ought
an air of tension is growing near;
could all I am end up forgot?
This possibility is my fear.