whence they come
mine tender thoughts?
adrift a fragrant breeze
of heaven’s hand,
or, perchance a summer moon?
what pokes and prods
relentless stirs
arouse me turn a loon?
me thinks tis them
come sure of mindless pen
danced of parchment Swoon
~ ~ ~
Aftermath
this morn the dawn lingers stale,
festered of travails born of eve last
enveloped in yesterday’s promises
still-born of a serrated Night
~ ~ ~
Self
there, that is me
writ in the margins,
inked of every line,
scribed of every page,
turned of every leaf,
stained in every Tome.
~ ~ ~
Unrooted
I am a renegade,
apostate, a mad man
bound free to frolic midst the roses
marigolds and lilies,
tho smote of thee,
I dance by devil’s Fury.
~ ~ ~