Torn bits of vellum scatter in the breeze,
black ink hangs on with vicious strength,
though opaque, the meaning remains hidden,
jumbled words in the ambient incandescence.

The author slowly walks away on the horizon,
the reader sobs, head in her hands on a bench,
leaves and dust begin to blow along with the poem,
scattered into the hinterlands of loss.

Still under your casted spell,
years and miles have not broken,
the rosined bow glides heartstrings,
a melody from yesterday plays.

It's funny how painted lips
seen across the room,
stirs a passioned cauldron
I thought emptied.

But those lips once pressed to mine,
branded and injected and scarred,
with witchcraft skill outshining Mab,
a lust that cannot be rend asunder.

The reunion cut short,
I hurry and leave,
lest she see me,
whereupon I shall turn to clay.

Too malleable in her hands,
and too open to suggestion,
my will wants this,
but my mind must overcome.

Coitus aroma still hangs
in the bedroom air,
sheets lay in tangled knots,
memories burned in,
only moments ago,
but already longing.

Eyes burn,
with visions,
despite lids closed,
the candle burns at both ends,
with things that cannot
be unseen,
or rinsed away,
with visine.

The cylinder spins,
only one round loaded,
her finger on my trigger,
my words whispered in her ear,
can poetry save me?

CLICK

Sound of snow,
a glint of light,
puffs of glowing breath,
an Iditarod morning.

Muzzled by pain,
yet the voice inside,
screams out streams,
if only they could be captured
and used to heal the soul.

Pheromones upon the wind,
signal me its time,
but these signals aren't for me,
and that is just a crime.

Silence in the shouting
patience in the pouting
living in the death,
hearts are all bereft.

Hopes roots sink in,
but some wither and die,
one eventually will blossom,
from the souls depths.