Waking in Terror

Lastly, out of the wreckage of night,

came a shiver of thought, broken

by wanting. Terror stricken, I beheld

a two-headed triumph—a broken life

and a laurel crown, a woman’s distant

whimper and the shadows, the whirling

shadows lifting me toward the moon.

Exiled, silently weeping, I scorn the touch

of those who would be lovers and drink

the ash of a perfect doom. Shame and

scorn tie the knot in my overgrown heart

and all breath is a leaving, no boon or balm

can palliate my pain. I wake in terror—

there is no error to my shame. My prison

is boundless, my sentence eternity,

the cruel winds messengers of my fate,

and a desire that ever dissipates as 

brooding death rears its head over the

horizon, whispering in a voice that chills

the blood the only truth a man can know: 

“Come! You are too late!” And so, I drink

the poison.

Song of Solitude

To think that I had her.

To think that I loved her.

To think that she loved me.

Now, all I have is a single memory,

as faint as dust in a dream.

Madness. What madness is left to summon?

All the sails are furled, and I am adrift

on this ocean of solitude.

And what are the days but shadows

of a distant past? Time 

is a weary dove who lays down in the grass

to die.

Love. Love. Love!

It’s such a simple word to say.

But you have said the word in vain.

Your heart wants to beat for another.

Your heart wants to sing for another.

But this song you sing is a song of solitude

that slowly turns your heart to stone.

Within is a fire which no sorrow or misfortune

can quell, of a strength whose magnitude

no man can tell.

This love that burns my heart, be free!

Go to another’s.