zenwyo

I was a poet - - but at my funeral none so much as uttered, with clandestine intone and spare mascara burn, a single note of my immortal promise. I was a poet - - yet as I burned my most sullen art, rising in smoke columns and blistered camphor wood, gave no such refuge to the man I had made. I was a poet, yes - - but as dry clay is offered with muffled god-words, my bones swept hither into the mouth of my urn, my words are no more than debt unpaid.  

The sky's poor émigré wan, a crescent rock halved and parted by the filigree of frozen rain   I hold it dear   and caught in the half light   I cannot bear the pain of your absence. The suicide of stars for one, maybe two beats of a ghost moths wing overfill my cup with distance and its supposed romance   I let go, though   tumbling down stream   like so many rocks and leaves. The golden syllable of morning comes, a seed on fire sewing reveries of war and those before who will not return   I hold it dear   and drying in its affectio

'Tis not that of the beholder But that of the awakened; That eye Free from the I Of Ignorance.