death

Sines

 

Mountains and valleys 

Holding chill and sweat. 

Deserts and oases 

Lacking and flooding life. 

Nightmares and dreamscapes 

Of terror and wonder. 

 

Up then down

And up again. 

Pillaged and 

Plundering yet. 

Exalted 

And salty still. 

 

Ups and downs,

Backs and forths,

Joys and pains,

Peaks and troughs. 

 

Frequencies 

And wavelengths 

Not only of 

Life and death, 

But of here 

And after,

Before here,

And hereafter.


Sines of life. 

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Alcohol and Ectoplasm

 

Alcohol and Ectoplasm
 
04.04.2010

There’s a certain appeal to the drunken haze at the bottom of a six-pack; an even greater appeal attaches itself to the soft bruise colored oblivion nestled deep in a bottle of Jack. Or rum. Tonight it’s rum. 
But before then, before that lovely haze filters out the edges of consciousness into the spinning vortex of sleep—before then, the ghosts come. They touch her shoulders, lift her hair gently with their ectoplasmic fingers and whisper in her ear. Their touch feels like ashes. Their breath smells like rotting rose buds left on gravestones after a rainstorm. Not all together unpleasant, Amy thinks. 
She brings her glass to her lips and swallows the last of her drink. It tastes cheap, like bottom shelf rum and the off brand cola. The sticky sweetness lingers on her tongue and oozes down her throat like molasses.  She lets her head rest against the back of her chair, lets her eyes lull to half-moons of contentment. 
Thin ghost-fingers run down her neck, stronger than the others, but she hardly notices. They touch her cheek, slip up her nose and spin her thoughts with tiny spider hands; pale, delicate hands with blue vein lace visible below the skin. They lead her up towards a set of storm gray eyes framed in thick black lashes that match the volumes of hair spilling over the ghost’s shoulders and into her face. The ghost’s nose is slightly upturned at the end, her cheekbones are high, and her mouth is a wide gash of red lipstick. 
 
Rosalie… 

Amy sits up too quickly. The small amount of light in the room makes her wince. She walks over to the window and pushes at the curtains until she can see the dark outlines of buildings slightly shorter than the one she lives in. They stretch out towards the city, shining several miles away like a twinkling beacon of estranged hope. She believed in that hope once. Before…

Rosalie.

Amy shakes her head and tries to dislodge some of the cobwebs put up by Rosalie’s pale spider-hands as she makes her way back to her desk chair. Her desk is by the kitchen. She spins to look at the time on the microwave, but the blurriness at the edge of her vision makes her squint. She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands.

Did I fall asleep? 

Rain begins to hit the window. Big, plump sounding raindrops carry the smell of wet earth between the cracks in the wooden pane and into the apartment. After a moment, the smell of roses and cinnamon churns the air.
It hasn’t rained in twenty-two days—not since the day at the hospital. 

Not since…

Amy waves her hand in front of her face to put some breathing room between her and her ghosts before leaning forward to dig through the wreck on her desk for her glasses. She pushes at a stack of papers, nudges a pint glass; the glass tips, falls and shatters on the scarred hardwood floor. The crash echoes through the apartment, bounces through the empty corners and scares the dust bunnies. 
  In the half-light the glass slivers look like stars glistening against wood-knot constellations. Amy stares down at them for a full minute before letting a convictionless curse fall to join them. 

If you press your hand into them you’ll have stars in your palm,” Rosalie’s voice says inside her skull. 

Amy snorts. “You’d like that,” she mumbles aloud.
“You’d like it more.” Rosalie’s voice comes from behind her, full volume and lush. The other ghosts are gone; Rosalie is the only one determined enough to stay. She smells like cinnamon gum and rose oil, she smells like she always did when she was alive.
Amy lets out a sigh that seems to pull all the strength from her body and plops her head down on the only clean spot on her desk. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” The edge of the desk bites into her forehead.
“I miss you.” She sets her hand on the back of Amy’s skull, soothes Amy’s unruly hair with her phantom fingers and watches Amy shiver at her touch. 
Amy sighs, rolls her head to the side and gazes up at Rosalie. Her heart twitches, a lump forms in her throat, and the backs of her eyes sting with unshed tears.
“What do I feel like?” Rosalie asks Amy. She tilts her head to the side like an inquisitive child and strokes Amy’s hair again; presses down through the static singe of Amy’s cropped dyed locks and caresses her cranium, runs the wisp of her index finger along Amy’s lambdoid suture. Amy shudders, squeezes her eyes shut.
“You feel like straight menthol dropped onto my skin,” she says and pulls away, “or like dry ice in a cut.”
 
***

03.13.2010

Amy walked into the hospital with her head down, rainwater still dripping from her hair.   To her left, a nurse stepped out from behind the big receptionist’s desk to ask Amy her name and who she was here to see.  Amy’s voice shook when she spoke, suppressed sobs clinging to her molars. She saw the nurse’s eyes soften before she turned and asked Amy to follow her to the end of the short hallway. Amy bit the inside of her cheek. 
The room smelled of bleach and vomit. When the nurse pulled the curtain closed and stepped out a hush fell on Amy’s shoulders. It made the steady beeping of the heart monitor too loud. She wanted to rip it off the wall and hurl it out the window. She wanted to scream. 
The starchy hospital blanket twitched. Amy stepped up to the bed and took the hand wrapped mostly in gauze; the fingers gave a gentle pressure as they tried to wrap themselves around hers.  A metallic, faintly rotten, smell slipped up Amy’s nostrils. That was when she noticed the blood caked under Rosalie’s nails, the brown-red flakes peeking out from under the bandages starting at her wrists, wrapping up her arms and waving over most of her body. She looked like a moth wrapped in its cocoon, or a spider’s meal trapped in webbing. There was a faint rustling further up in the bed: the sound of a head turning to the side—like when they were kids and they’d lie on the Sunday paper to make silly putty comics. 
Amy squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to look up. She started to cry.
Rosalie groaned. What was left of her eyebrows were knitted together as she tried to focus through the morphine-haze on Amy. Her eyes looked like London fog over water, her pupils only small pinpricks in the distance.
“It’s okay,” Amy told her, “I’m here now. Everything will be okay. Don’t try to talk. I’m here. It’ll be okay.”
Amy watched Rosalie’s eyes relax at the sound of her voice, saw the tension in her body leek into the hospital bed to mingle with the small bright-red smudges slowly oozing from some of the bandages covering her body. She reached up to brush one of the few remaining wisps of Rosalie’s hair which had escaped from the gauze wrapped around her head when she’d turned. It felt like charred silk. She watched Rosalie’s eyes close. If she could have seen her mouth, she could have seen what was left of Rosalie’s raw, cracked, lips try to smile.
The nurse quietly peeked around the curtain and motioned for Amy to follow her out into the hallway. Amy turned back to Rosalie and whispered she’d be right back, but the steady rise and fall of the blanket told her Rosalie had already fallen asleep. 
“She’s exhausted,” the nurse said in a hushed tone when they were both in the hallway and tried her luck at a sympathetic smile. “She refused to let herself sleep until you got here.” 
“I got here as soon as I could…My phone was off. I was in a meeting and…” Amy began, but the nurse gave her a look that said she understood, things like this were no one’s fault. Amy shifted from one foot to the other, guilt seeping up from the carpet and eating through the bottoms of her shoes. If she stood still for too long the souls would melt to the tile floor. 
The nurse was young. She was taller than Amy by a good couple of inches, she may have been as tall as 5’8”, but was plagued by the apologetic stoop most tall people develop. She was pretty. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy pony tail and her nose was small, her eyes expertly lined with kohl, but she had on those thick-rimmed hipster glasses Amy had seen the kids who hung around Starbucks wear.  Rosalie would have made a comment about them; something about how terrible current fashion was to make a pretty girl want to hide her eyes behind something so ugly. Amy simply wanted to rip those glasses off the nurse’s nose and stomp on them. 
“… critical condition. There is still a chance of internal bleeding—”
Amy shook her head. “I’m sorry, what?”
“When she came in she was in critical condition. It’s a miracle she made it here at all, to be honest. I saw the pictures of the cars. But just because she is relatively stable now doesn’t mean everything’s 100%. With as much as she was knocked around there is still a chance of internal bleeding and most of her skin is the same as an open wound from the burns. We’re going to have to monitor her for infection, but this is the best hospital this side of the country for skin graphing so—” She was cut off by a loud beeping from Rosalie’s room. Her eyes got wide before she turned and ran back inside. 
Amy’s mouth hung open. She heard people running down the hall and saw three other nurses turning the corner, running towards her; towards Rosalie. 
Amy burst through the curtain before she realized she’d moved. She ran to the opposite side of the bed from the nurse and took Rosalie’s hand.  Her fingers were cold. 
The beeping was deafening. It was like different pitched fire alarms were going off in Amy’s brain. Rosalie’s face was pale and her eyes were closed with the barest slivers, like crescent moons, peeking out from singed black lashes.  She began to rub Rosalie’s hand to try to warm it up. 
“Rosalie?  LiLi? LiLi, it’s me. Open your eyes, LiLi. It’s Amy. LiLi, it’s Amy. I’m here. Open your eyes. Please, open your eyes!” Tears made her hands slick as she tried to make Rosalie’s hand warm; rubbing it, then holding it between the two of hers like she did the winter of their third anniversary, spent in Central Park under the millions of Christmas lights, crunching through the snow. “LiLi, open your eyes!”
 
***
 
04.03.2010

“Aaaamy. AmyAmyAmy. Ammmmy, open your eyes. Amy, sweetheart, wake up.” 
Amy’s eyelids peel apart. Rosalie comes into focus slowly, her ebon hair falling softly over her shoulders, her fingertips reaching towards Amy’s cheek—
No.
Rosalie is dead. Dead and burnt to pale gray ash and bone splinters. Bone that looked like charred flecks of kindling the night after a bonfire rose into any of the crisp October nights spent huddled together under the stars. Bone that now floats off the shores of Saint Augustine. 
Amy presses her fingers to her temples, trying to dislodge the memories. She can hear Rosalie’s voice, her laugh, see her smile twinkling in her eyes… 
Rosalie pointing at Amy with her fork, a chunk of cheesecake speared in its teeth; her hand covering her mouth, her eyes teasing.  
Rosalie skipping playfully down the crumbling cobblestones of King Street; her hand extended for Amy, calling for her to hurry.
Rosalie pressed against the coral composite walls of the Spanish fort, fingers tangled in Amy’s hair, pulling her closer; her mouth—hotter than the hottest of Florida summers. 
 
Rosalie covered in a sheet, hospital nurse scratching down the time of death.
 
“Amy…. I’m so lonely…” The apartment smells like roses and cinnamon.
“Me too,” Amy whispers to the dawn peeking over the windowsill. 
 
 
Amy leans over the edge of the bathtub, fiddles with the knobs until she hears the ancient pipes groan, heavy with water. She lets it wash over her hand until it reaches a lovely temperature of scald before stripping naked and stepping into the tub. She turns her back to the showerhead, presses one hand flat against the wall to remind herself to stay upright and closes her eyes. Red blossoms spread over the skin of her back and creep around to her chest where the water hits her. She can’t feel it—her insides are cold. 
She opens her eyes when she feels pressure, slow and firmer than the constant streaks of water, run down her cheek. Rosalie’s body is distorted through the water droplets clinging to Amy’s eyelashes. She blinks and Rosalie is gone— no —she is laying in the bottom of the tub, skin black and peeling, pink muscle oozing clear fluid. What looks like chunks of burnt bread from the bottom of the toaster float towards the drain, clogging it. A clump of Rosalie’s black hair wraps around Amy’s ankle. She rolls her eyes up to Amy and stretches back what is left of her lips from teeth that seem impossibly white, like a shark’s. The skin splits in the corners of her mouth and blood leeks down her chin. 
Amy screams and takes a step backwards. Her foot slips out from under her. The back of her skull crunches when hits the tub’s spout. 
 
Limp on the bottom of the tub, head wound seeping, Amy’s eyes flutter. She feels Rosalie wrap her peeling fingers around hers before losing consciousness. 
Rosalie hums to herself and rubs her ectoplasmic thumb over Amy’s paling knuckles. The dull red water in the tub rises and washes over the side, spreading over the linoleum like diluted sangria. When Amy finally leaves her body, Rosalie is waiting.  

I’ve missed you so much…


 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

The formatting isn't quite right, but you get the idea.

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A Woman of Grace

Folder: 
Grief & Grieving

Jane Catherine  Cavalcante


Momma was strong, right to her last breath.


She knew her Lord, so she feared not, death.


For years she fought, keeping her faith strong,


An example to us, when things go so wrong.


 ~


Her smile lit up her face, her laugh, a delighter,


Her Irish green eyes, made everything brighter.


She held together the ends, of our family ties.


Our matriarch, she was the love of our lives.



She fought so hard, for so many years,


A woman of courage, despite all the tears.


Her body was worn, the pain was too great.


So God took her Home, to walk through that Gate.



She lived for her family, how fierce was her love.


She's still loving us now, but from Heaven above.


No one could ever compare, nor take her place.


She was a woman of God...She was a woman of Grace.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Rest in Glory Momma!!

I miss you and love you so very much! Cry

~
Jane Catherine Cavalcante

Dec. 19, 1944-July 20, 2020

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My Precious Momma

Folder: 
Grief & Grieving

Jane Catherine  Cavalcante

My Precious Momma...

I hugged you, talked to you, kissed you.

I spent Blessed, special time with you,

on your that, last day here

...and now,

I'm supposed to go on living without you,

My Precious Momma.

~

How is that even possible,

when you were the first person I ever loved

and the first person,

who ever loved me,

My Precious Momma?

When you were my best friend,

my confidant, my advice 'go-to' and giver?

My hand-holder, my cheering squad,

my example of strength, of grace, of dignity,

of a deep and steadfast Faith.

Just like that...54 years

and 20 days, all the days I ever knew,

of living in this world with you in it~

and then, suddenly...no more.

~

My Precious Momma,

When you left this earth,

Heaven surely got even more beautiful,

as you arrived

and your smiling Irish eyes,

just went wide-open in utter awe,

as you touched the glorious face of Jesus, at last.

Then, as you turned all around,

dancing in delightful glory,

restored, renewed,

with no pain, no struggle, no worry, no fear...

and not ever again.

~

Oh My Precious Momma,

you certainly more than earned your reward,

for your trials you had, here on this earth.

For that I am so grateful, to our Lord,

that you suffer no more,

and while I long to have you back,

I would never wish you away from Paradise

and back to pain and struggles and strife.

~

No My Precious Momma...

For I would rather continue

the time I have left here, on earth,

with my own pain and struggles and strife

and live as Faithful a life as you did,

being as strong a woman as you were,

My Precious Momma,

knowing that someday soon,

it will be my time to go to be with you,

there, Home in Heaven.

~

But until then...

until Father God calls me Home too,

I will still, forever and ever, be loving you,

be missing you, be aching inside

and be so very lost without you...

My Precious Momma.

Cry


 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

In loving memory of My Precious Momma, Jane Catherine Cavalcante, born December 19, 1944...who went to be with Jesus on July 20, 2020

I miss you so very, very much, Mom!!! I am broken and lost without you. Cry

https://www.bakerpostfh.com/memorials/Cavalcante-Jane/4272389/obituary.php

It's My Sweet Momma

Folder: 
Grief & Grieving
 
 
I heard her heart beating,
From there, inside her womb.
She loved me before anyone,
While I was in my first room.

She birthed me and held me
and rocked away my cries.
It was by her, I first knew love,
When I first looked into her eyes.

She raised me and reared me,
Taught me right from wrong.
And showed me, by her example,
How to be strong-woman strong.

She spanked me when needed,
For which I'm no worse for the wear.
She's guided me through trials,
Through sadness and though despair.

She's been my very best friend,
My teacher, and my biggest fan.
And she'll forever be my hero,
For all my remaining lifespan.

But now she's so very tired
And she longs to go Home.
Where she'll hurt never again
As through Heaven's streets, she'll roam.

For that, I'll be so grateful,
She's more than earned her reward.
As once she arrives in Heaven,
She will be fully healed and restored!

And I know this won't be the last time,
I'll see her beautiful face...
For one day, I'll join her,
In that Glorious Place!

But oh, sorrow until then,
My heart will surely be aching,
For it's not just anyone, you see,
It's My Sweet Momma, God's taking.


07-17-2020






 

Author's Notes/Comments: 
I write with the ink of my soul and this has to be the easiest, yet, the absolute hardest poem I've ever written. Cry
I love you with all my heart and soul, Mom. <3
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Methodic Madness

Enslaving chains and wilderness pains 

are broken on healing heavenly domain 

plus graceful throne, envisioned. 

 

Method upholds this marauding madness 

aflicting us on earthly journeys through 

wounded wilderness, deadly disdain 

and frighful famine; distressing 

humankind and nature. 

 

Twisted minds and wicked souls  

torment humankind on this earthly  

journey through birth, life and death. 

Yet, we came with nothing; and with 

nothing, we depart to earth's dust.  

 

Hideous hypocrisy darkens love to 

hide this greatest reality from heaven's 

green pastures, meadows and 

river bed, unchained.  

 

We follow this river path to oceans 

lighted by divine mercy and unending 

salvation; healing broken hearts and 

bleeding, lost souls. 

 

Cold Rage

Scream, scream, screaming:

 

Help those drowning 

 

all around

 

and they look to their coffers,

and the piles fill into the coffins--

 

The tide is coming in and the flood

is just getting worse:

there's a rage building in the dead,

and we'll speak for them. 

 

Wretched bodies flung into a funeral pyre,

and the silence is deafening upon the pile,

and we see our love burned to ashes,

and we see their hands deep in pockets.

 

Cold hard cash for the winners and 

death sentences for everyone else. 

 

There's a cold rage building in the dead

and we'll speak for them. 

 

The march of the dead is coming and 

pitchforks are on our side this time.

 

Too big to fail too big to fall to big to take on

too big for their own good too big so

 

let's build ourselves and let them know

 

we're too big to ignore.

 

There's a cold rage building in the dead and

it just keeps growing and

we'll speak for them. 

 

If we're face down, six feet under, it doesn't matter

if their cash piles grow and grow

in the face of God they pray, bow, and pretend

it's fine as long as they say sorry

 

and it won't be. 

 

A cold rage is building in the dead,

am ember burning

threatening to blow it apart

and it just keeps growing

and

 

we'll speak for the dead. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There's a cold rage building in the dead. 

The Lay of Maranwe

Folder: 
Tales and Fables

Once upon a time, long ago,

enfurled in a land in which did flow

rivers of enormous size,

through great wolds and over the rise

of a cliff, grand and mystique,

on a mountain of which whose peak

looked out over the cold, cold sea

the mistress of sailors, the love of the free.

The sea! The sea! Oh, the sea.

Twas the sea that called Maranwe

to his wrack so long ago

when the sea swelled with melted snow.

 

He was born of the eldest son

of kingly sires who one-by-one

had met the sea and so did yearn

for it, waiving the sun's bright burn

and descended into the shadowy deep

never to rise, forever to sleep.

Doom, his father tried to avoid

for the sake of the son in which he enjoyed,

but strong was the blood that ran through his vein

and quick was he to find his own bane

at the cold hands of the death-thirsty sea,

never to rise, nevermore to be free.

 

Maranwe's bold life began that day

that his father died, and he was sped away

deep into the wold, far from the sea,

so that the bale of his forefathers may not be

his weird, and his mother bade

him loath the sea, upon which was laid

the curse of his fathers and of his kin,

and to love no more the mortal men -

men who were easily swayed by the sea

until they should die, no more to be.

He was then placed into an elf's care

until the house he no longer could share,

and so ran away into deep shaws,

away from men and his mother's laws.

 

A great hunter he soon came to be, 

under no law, forever free,

until the day he found his weird

in an old man with a gray beard

who stood in the way

on the dawn of that fateful day. 

A teacher the man claimed to be

and taught Maranwe sigaldry

of fiery magic with weildy blade

and when they were finished, he again bade

Maranwe to reject the sea

that the bane of his fathers may not be

the weird of a hero so noble and blest

but Maranwe grew wrathful and lay down to rest

the old man who had once been his friend

but the old man, while trying to fend

him off cried “Beware the sea my friend!

For the sea mews lonely cry can rend

a man to long for the sea's dark gray

to find his weird and prove him fey.”

But Maranwe did not heed his words

and under the sight of carrion birds

slew his friend and mentor true

but fearing the wrath of the gods, he flew.

On waking again he was alone

and running away, his face shone

with the sheen of one already fey

so his doom was full-sealed that day.

 

After untold travail, and finally ruth,

Maranwe decided to live forsooth

and bated by the cold freshets and frith 

chose to rid the world of the myth

of the resident naiad who lived in the river.

So taking up his sword, bow, and quiver,

he went to find her, to clear his name

and possibly take from him the bane 

of his forefathers, now almost forgotten

dead on the sea floor, blind and rotten.

But the nymph was know for creating bliss

and in the men stirred wantonness

and by keeping their attention all day 

their farms had all faded away.

 

So on went Maranwe to trap the poor girl,

first to capture, then to hurl

her out of the shaw, to trouble no more

the farmers and peasants who lived by the shore 

of her cool river which led out to the sea,

and then perhaps he would be free

of the bane of his house and the dirt of his name.

For his name ever brought to him shame

for 'Maranwe' means destiny in elvish they say,

and so he looked for her day after day,

to change his weird and live in bliss

and never again his name would miss.

 

He sought her through forest and fountain, glade and glen,

until he finally found her, but then

he stayed his hand and was entranced

by this beautiful nymph who danced

upon the green shore of her river home

far from the cold sea's frothy foam.

And while he stared, he caught her eye,

and her eyes appeared bluer than the bluest sky,

deeper than the ocean floor,

more precious to him than a diamond's core.

But away she swam, with him in pursuit

till they came to the river's root 

and then he stopped and cried to her

for like a fish, he had taken the lure.

She then looked back at the haggard man,

then into the forest she quickly ran

but the forest was Maranwe's home

the place where he always loved to roam.

 

After two days, she began to tire

and deep within her kindled a fire

for this man, so brave and wild

this incarnation of forest child.

And so she turned and welcomed him

the only child of mortal men

who had gained her love, though wild and fey,

her heart, he had finally captured that day.

And so they lived long, through sorrow and bliss 

until the sea claimed her, and then her he did miss

and followed to the edge of that sea

wishing that with her he would again be.

 

Walking the shore, looking out towards the sea

he was met by a very strange company

of men, and the friend who he killed long ago

ethereal spirits, alive but lo!

Maranwe's old friend had turned his head

and looking straight at him, he said,

“Beware, beware of the sea my friend! 

For the sea mews lonely cry can rend

a man to long for the sea's dark gray

to find his weird and prove himself fey.

For these, my friends who surround me yet

were once kings of old, men who let 

their desires fall to the cold, cold sea,

never to die, nevermore free.'

“Your forefathers these are, who I warned long ago,

I gave them each good counsel but lo!

They did not listen, and they became fey 

when they ignored my counsel the very first day.”

 

And Maranwe foreseeing his doom draw near,

ran from that place in bloodcurdling fear

that his doom may yet be completed that day

and that his life would soon fade away. 

So he ran up the shore, back to the stream

but coming upon it, he saw a small gleam

and turning to see from whence it came

saw only the spirit of that once-loved dame

and crying aloud, he wept bitter tears

and afraid of the drawing of his years

to a close, he ran back to the sea

as if able to confront his enemy,

but all he found was the calm sea and shore,

the ethereal spirits he saw no more.                                                                                                                                                                                 

 

For years after he lived by the sea

for in his heart he never was free

from the love of the nymph, whom he had loved dear

and filled with this love, he set away fear

and constructed a plan to sail the cold sea

to find his maid, and set her free

from the death-enveloping sea

and nevermore a thrall would she be.

But at the shore awaited his fate,

for although in his life it came late,

doom overcomes all that it calls,

and it caught Maranwe at the falls

of the great rivers that empty into the sea

at the edge of the lands of the free.

For as he approached, he heard the crying mews

and the battle of fate he knew he would lose

but nevertheless to the sea he went out

and stepping onto the shore with a shout

he cried “The sea! The sea! Oh the sea,

know that you do not own my destiny.

For I have lived long years without count

with the woman I loved, and at her fount

I lived like no man ever lived before,

and now gladly I come unto death's door.”

 

Then forsaking his life, and the sun's bright burn

to find his love for which he did yearn,

he descended into the shadowy deep

never to rise, forever to sleep.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dated NOV25, 2009

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The Face

Folder: 
Tales and Fables

The saddest eyes in a world of gray

Full of hurt, and the weakest strength

Windows to a tortured brain

Courting madness to look sane

 

I see the darkness around your face

That you try to hide away

You've lost the will to live again

Subject to recurring pain

 

The wrinkles flow around your features

Like roiled and cracked imprints of creatures

Growing old while in your prime

Extenuate the charm of time

 

The mouth is small and bares it's teeth

Silent when it ought to speak

Chewing when it ought to stay

Cursing the good days away

 

Stepping back

Now I see

It's simply a mirror

Reflecting me...

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