The Dying of the Light

Early, it's too early they say, you're much too young. Hey, you aren't a stone.

And yet, there where you stand the world passes you by and no tears come,

must be too early, the trees haven't caught flame yet, tho the dryspell cracks my ribs.

Spineless in my dizzy dance, I beg the stars to buzz just once for me.

The haze of my soul spreads over the dying ash of green,

a cloaked grayness will bleed my destiny and overtake the afternoons.

I plan on evacuating the colors of the world to send postcards to the sacred burial-sites.

I know the shun. I see how everything views my imprisoned soul.

Even suffering Orion pitys my meaningless thrumming, there where his ancient flesh rots: suspended half-dead above my equinox.

Under the broken promises of great storms, my bones ache, I go on living just to spite the fates,
and my hands do nothing but weave the air to the air. All the days, these fiery minutes reduced to dust and memory.

Here is where I'll oxidize under such vast Creation.

The Dying of The Dream

Early, it's early they say, and you aren't a stone-

yet where you stand the world passes you by and no tears come,

must be too early, the trees haven't caught flame yet.

The haze of my soul spreads over the dying ash of green,

a cloaked grayness will arrrive and overtake the afternoons.

I plan on evacuating the colors of the world to send postcards to the holy.

Even to suffering Orion, there where his ancient flesh rots: suspended half-dead above my equinox.

Under the broken promises of great storms, my bones ache, I live, and my hands

do nothing but weave the air to the air. The fiery minutes reduced to dust and memory.

Here is where I'll oxidize under Creation.

Sanction

I thought the winds would cleanse me or the birdsong unlock the years.

Time has not been gentle but I find ways to ignore the overflow.

Long ago, I made a home inside the hope of something small.

I discussed this with the northern stars on Sundays.

But through the years the night burned cold

and the small thing that I banked on, finally died.

The last time I saw it, the waves were breaking over,

and carrying it fast downstream, it struggled and tried to swim.

I never saw it again but often in my lonely dreams, I hear the water rushing

and I see it's wild eyes gleaming in it's very last breath.

Haunted by the sounds of my own wasted footfalls,

scuffling across a giant blue planet; and more broken than a burning wing.