Morbid whispers, past to present,
Decadent in mourning.
Efforts much too long misspent,
Haunted, rich with yearning.
Ask, but never postulate,
Arrive honest and plain.
More emptiness to consecrate,
A journey made in vain.
With distance alone the burden fades,
The heart finds itself aflutter.
The end at last, of all charades,
Not a word left to utter.
Though anguish may appear to rise within those vacant skies,
Can’t trust a single tear, if it falls from a demon’s eyes.
Sunset Over the Hills
The city grows still, under springtime sky
Shimmering in dusk’s golden light
Apollo weary, begins to rest
Birds fly the coop
Man does his best
In the Afternoon
Fade in,
wanderer in city clothes,
strangers you feel like you know,
rushing past on the sidewalk,
in waves of blue and grey.
This is not poetry.
sealed in ink 