Stepping into a Lightless Basement

And the headaches get worse,

like the shock of alcohol to the mind –

a wisp of thought draining the dregs of

poison and remedy,

            remedy and poison.

 

The mind is slipping, so society puts it.

Words like leaves only lasting a season,

and I remember the sound of autumn;

dry things like leaves, twigs and

forsaken liquor bottles,

            forsaken glass.

 

Funny how our eyes search the darkness

for that which it will only see in the light.

Walk in the Morning Rain

An archer steps still to the edge of the ferns;

arrowheads barely piercing the mist.

It is a silent moment when a heart stops beating.

Ferns dip their head in quiet assent, while

the mist falls disinterestedly on.

 

We retrace the archer’s steps as the days pass.

We run our fingers along the papery bark

of the evergreens, remembering.

 

Songless sparrows look on as we plunge

our hands into the wet soil where she last lay,

hoping to feel her last heartbeat.

Hoping to hear the last melody of our

Godforsaken siren.

And still the ferns creep closer to her grave.