Unquiet Light.

Originally posted on Lucy's Works and Co:
When the hand lays on sights, dead, That collapsed dust from earlier time, That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead With the lining, cried at first breath. Doth the rooms that…

A Winter Sere.

And I will wake from frail calls, lonely, enkindled by the breeze.
I will wake in silent hope that glares its rays upon a sere trunk,
As gently a shadow passed through that made me say of this Podunk,
“Alone, brighter than the starlit partings, tides you a dream

Oh, Dream.

And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea
“For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.

Valhalla. (Prose)

It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.

I’ll Remember.

As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac,
And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer,
For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers
That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden trees, and their blossoming tormented thunders


There, the shores of lonely remembrance see as to I have brought
On the stirring abandoned rivers that are breathless through the shriveled drops of blood,
And it is glinted from the wounding sun upon my pale skin that flutters upon the shallow surf,
And I, oh, I will be beside the sunsets and shadows that waned through the pretty moans,
Gemmed with tears that will roll as the grappling sea that lays with a reflection of rattled and splintering waves that will curl upon the quiet stones;

Morning Snow. (Prose)

I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world

Perfume Loring…. (Prose)

Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands,

I hate this place.

My Hope Arises.

And I pray, inclined to the retired hues of sandhills,
The moon had lowered its light to my hands,
As though I was passed by its shadow, never forgotten,
When the dark dusk covers the squill, a pack of doctrines
Laid memory in sight, emaciated by the mercy,
The cries caressed my overlapped palms to the words I impart
As these alone could not touch me.

A Northern Wind.

I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls
The northern river kneels, beating pearls,
As the shawl darkens in the ghoul of silence in the wind.


Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone,
Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream
That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set,
Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again,
That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn
Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland

Frail River (A Wasteland).

A lit flame upon the stitched rag of shore,
Which pales upon the blossoms of a winter rose,
I think of a frail dream with Greek souls and song,
That slightly breathed through the muted shore.

A Forgetful Dream, a Memory.

The dripping willows through the fragility of the dream
Makes the numb candles point to a dead fortnight
Surrendered to the blinding rivers that I would soon forget
In this winter dream; where no leaf crosses the river,
Where no dream is upon the weak bough above the sea

A Wildflower Dream.

Shines above, the light that finds
The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower,
Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds