Hopeless flies
the arrow
hard
against the wind,

a cry in the distance
of the desolation
of a desperate heart,

a sudden stop
within the enigmatic
eye of the storm.

The revolution
passes by,
and silhouetted faces
smile,

furrowed brows
masked by shadows,
and cloaks of falsehood
like a masquerade.

The drum rolls,
and bells toll
with an uncertain harmony.

Black Day All Tied Up…

I hate this fucking black tie,
men fidgeting while women cry.
Here we are, we meet again,
does it have to fucking rain.

All acting suitably subdued,
what else is there now but drink.
Morbid tales of others viewed,
gives everyone time to think.

A shiny wooden box for a final closure,
sure as hell nicer than cremation’s fire.
Undertaker hands on the burial brochure,
such an ending, he hopes we all require.

I did feel the Widow Solstice
take leave her throne last night,

nay, I was right when I said "feel"
for it weren't from sound or sight;

I took leave of my own senses to check my plight.

Running past me into the desert cold
her wake echoed a haunted tune,

'twas but an overture from the score, in parts
she was more concerned with lassoing the moon;

for a lamp, to play the whole piece for a loon..

The Widow Solstice's musical prowess
didn't exist, so she'd merely pretend,

I remember heaven
. fleece dotted crisp blue skies
.peppered with migrating flocks
.trumpeting their joy

I remember
. muscadine tinted air
. strolling through forests' cathedral
among random columnades
shafts of sunlight
making places special
by their spotlight
and shadows drifted with the day