Moisture

I hear midnight,
calling withered roses-
dusty, black now.
The pink ribbon their noose.
Strongest upside-down
All becomes brown;
sometimes black.
Never red, never yellow.
These are beginnings,
only to fade- dull lustre away.
Thick, pungent, moist the petals
breathe.
Speak? For conscience.
For me. Even if only
within my heart.
The breath is my spirit,
and dry the changing wind.
Nov. 22, 1996

Life, Loss, Hope and Nothing

Once, before the sunrise,
I sent pieces of myself away.
Away over the star-spun sky,
into blackness and nothing,
far beyond.
My soul could escape then,
through the ruptured folds.
I watched my mists as they faded,
trying to grasp at shimmering Life,
Loss on his heels.
I paraded my might,
poised the image about myself,
forgot all undercurrent,
but yet I taxed taut Hope,
and broke her.
Out in that blackness,
they weave together,
each alone, derive strength
from each other.
And I watch, to pretend
I see, though Nothing-
with his piercing eyes is here.
Only him I see.
Nov. 22, 1996