Cryptic Poise

With an unassuming ascent,
Arrives a grace untold.
From gold tinted hearts,
A Life-Giving gene.
That upon a coincidence of place
The earth received a brighter face.

To dispense neglect to this sweet form,
Would be as if to dispel a dove,
That brings epistles of bliss in such diffidence,
That they remain hidden to man’s sense,
Which has been, in its absence,
Assigned wholly, to selfishness.



















In conceit he questions his lot,
Until he is painfully snapped down!
At the hands of a different, indifferent fate,
And the news, that she has passed the heavenly gate.

Like Clockwork

Like Clockwork, the moon glides shining to its nest.
The watchmen hangs a lantern through twilight,
And wonders, if one could trail the moon's flight
Through sky, starlight, and cosmic Might?

Upon cobblestone, a crooked carriage creaks.
Drawn by the gravity of a wicked will,
and man's conviction of his superior skill.
It's sight set on an incipient light, found over the hills

"And far away, it seems-"
Said the watchman to his mate-
"That a carriage approaches in the dim light."
So they drew the curtains tight, and hoped for a safe night.

At the crest of the final hill the carriage's axle snapped,
And the knave's curses could be heard through the dark yard,
As by the time it would take to untangle his muddled fate,
The sun would have risen, and caused his aim to appear embarrassingly late.

What's Missing

A scarlet sunset, wistfully I think of
Golden air, and the sound of laughter.
The dream of a broken heart,
In the sight of what's missing.

Dark binding bitterness, looming perilously,
Casting shadows of suppression and regret,
Tearing at the heart, mauling the mind,
The silent boast of what's missing.

But few care to listen.

The hand of a man,
looks to console, looks to conciliate.
But blindly it moves,
with an eye only for itself.

Patience it needs, heartlessness it takes,
The question of time wasted.
The hand grasps, straining,
Calls out, writhing.

But none can hear, none can hear.

Mellow and melancholy,
The hand moves dispassionately,
Uninterested in that which once held its' full attention,
Pondering whether it fate or curse that stole what's missing.

The sunset comes and goes, unnoticed, untold.
The man considers what exactly it was he lost,
Alas, not even he knows,
In the sight what's missing, what's missing.