of white halls and white gowns
and white lights glimmering off
tops of clear, black windows,
in the silent night.
This funnel holds my heart, sinking
ever deeper as I watch
you, breathing by machine
in soft sulks and forced exhales,
within inanimate slumber
in these silent hours, these
I dare not think
if Judas suffered this reflection
upon a midnight melancholy,
during a ceaseless, sulking gaze;
I dare not think this:
hazed within despaired reverence,
upon this darkest moment,
did I realize you a stranger,
whom I must acquaint,
my dearest brother.
Her lashes shift softly
as dust drifts in place.
The yellow walls
accent her classic grace.
The blue cloth sits bare,
revealing more than covering
as it glides upon her gentle hips
whirling through grass.
hands barely gracing
This is what I see
as I brush tender hair
from her eyes,
wrinkled by placid smile.
As the wall gives color
to her pale skin,
and patches of
with the sun glittering off
tufts of hair
scattered across the pillow case. . .
The veiled light. . .
this is what I see.
He stood afar
From the kings and ancient boundaries
and pawns brawling, bloodied
for a cause all forgotten
fancied through lore of hawk-eyed beasts
He stood there never sleeping
musing reasons and left there weeping
wise from storied myths of glory
grasping the empty truth beneath
But as war drew ever closer
he strapped taut his heavy armor
and gripped his weapon ready
primed to die in disbelief
I met him far from Eden
atop Caucasus’s brusque crown
bound to lone, stone ruin.
Steam exhaled through wind’s white gown.
He sat miserable with a look
which shook the world if she ever gazed
through her haze of selfish affluence
-from man’s burning dissonance-
stemmed from his selfless, marathon flame.
He then took notice of me and spoke
as father would to distant son,
Has it made all the difference?