Late at night with burning eyes
trying to write some poetry
which I can read and not despise.
Nothing good will come to me.
Imagery swirls in my tired mind.

In my recliner, pad in lap,
pen is poised for words to come.
Moths attack the window tap, tap, tap.
I yawn as head and arms turn numb.
The waking world is left behind.

The segue into dream is smooth,
It seems my walk has tired me out.
So since I have nothing to prove
pace slows to match the woods about.
To its quiet beauty I'd been blind.

Disperse the prism of reflection
Colours Crystallized refractions
wane
Warping the silken pad

Pupa dreams
Only a delirium of fruition

Moth to flame

Left to languor
Upon the befogged

Wishes now musty
Mutations insoluble

Wings of shattered want
Flutter not
Nor float upon the breeze

Extinct heart
Dawns its reality
Eyes wide now unshut
No cocoon exists

Confined to heartbreak
And its dissipation

Flying high disrobed
Mating now forsaken

Gluttonous loneliness chews and grinds
upon the lifeline of borrowed time
sumptuously feeding all day and night
beyond drawn curtains of human sight.

Remorseless persistent depression
invades
accompanied by pantomimed dark
charades
silent suffering voices fear to
speak
from rusted armored shells so paper
weak.

Dying shadows of displaced memories fall
across haunted eyes reddened and dull
Reason is imprisoned behind bars of pain
as the death masked warden executes your name.

It all started one lovely May.
The sun there wove a golden way,
the stars, the moon in no delay
begged us a hey, begged us a hey.

We thought we'd have our life-for long
to play tunes that never go wrong.
A stream of passion keeps along
with every song, with every song.

We were words, those printed to hold
a story written deep in gold.
Yet misty shadows blew to fold
a tale been told, a tale been told