Still light arises, Hauling a mirage of day To provoke delight And stoke the ashes of the Crumbled husks of night terrors.
My pitiful room, Discontent with a feeble Lacerated curtain Resigned to a flat, listless Impediment of light and sleep.
Statuesque mornings Numbly lit by diluted Grey held captive in Tumbling, rampant storm clouds Wound tight over the roughed dawn.
Souvenirs in minds, Surrealist, visceral views Of Soliloquies That vanish with clouds of grime, Pollute daffodils by water.
Volunteer to me A relic of owl feathers Dangling from oak, Set it high, near glass, Let it snare my night visions.
Don’t gather sphagnum From courtyard fences partly Overgrown at dawn When phantoms of older days Will tire from chasing time.
1 I, defunct bastard, Diagnosed with life at birth, Understand these words And how they translate across The abyss within my deep.
Into my minds eye A knot of momentary Moments yet and had.
Faces, interlocked now,Like Janus, peering into futureAnd the past, simultaneously.
Dust shifting away, Receding from nakedness framing A more ancient face.