The Fires

Memories from the Future

With a cold gust of air and unearthly chimes,

she appears once more: small and grave,

pale as ice and quite translucent.

Out of fog and mist, she gathers form,

coalescing into an insubstantial night visitor,

returning to offer me silent reproach.

Well I know her message; she has given me it

many a time before.

She stands there, a true child of the night;

she does not speak, only stares at me with

large, grey eyes.

She knows I know why she has come, for she

is I and I am she; there is no need for

speech, her silent presence is enough.

For several minutes, we stand, silent and

unmoving in the chill dark.

Then, in a swirl of Otherworldly music,

the water droplets composing her figure

unravel and disperse, scattering in the

wind until she is nothing more than a memory.

Her message imparted, her duty is discharged,

and she is free once more.

Yet, once again, I have seen her: the

ghost of my past, spinning mist into the

substance of my memories.

I know she will haunt me again, and

yet, a memory from the future

is uncertain.

12/25/02

Almost

Almost true, almost real; almost right, almost there

Almost yes, a might-have-been

Not quite no, a false hope

Dashed on the rocky shore of possibility.

Almost pure, almost whole; almost ready, almost home

Almost once, never again

Not yet here, still so

Far away from where we were

A lifetime ago.

Almost

not there

in the end.

1-11-03

This was the product of boredom at a speech & debate tournament, waiting for the next round to begin.

Broken Angel

Broken wings, singed hair, bruised and

battered face, shattered faith.

How did you fall, angel?

How does the hope of the future fail?

Your face is covered in blood;

white alabaster glistens amid a field of

crimson in the runnels created by your

silent tears.

Who started this raging fire, this worldwide

conflagration, angel?

Your golden halo hides amidst the ashes,

and your pristine robes are blackened, like

our honour.

Angel, your wings are tattered and broken,

from a fall off a high, remote ledge.

Does humanity hurt, angel?

Can you still believe, now that your faith

has been shaken to the core?

Do you even have the courage to believe

in yourself anymore, broken angel?

7/23/04

November Thoughts

Walking through the dead and dying leaves
Scattered across my path,
Breathing in the sharp, bitingly cold late fall air,
I realise that almost four months have passed.

This thought strikes me with a sudden chill
Far more cold than the November air,
And I wonder if these hours and days
Have been well-spent.

Have I grabbed the coattails of this time
And ridden it through every last second?
And if I've let this experience begin to pass me by,
How should I respond?

Is there a frantic scrambling to discover and force
A meaning on this time,
Or is there a passive release and nod to defeat?
Is there such a thing as wasted time?

As I slowly continue walking my cluttered path,
These questions hang,
Frozen and unresolved,
In the frosty air with my cloudy breath.

11/10/04

Morning View

A cloud of perfect corkscrew spirals
Spill down over creamy white, dark and heavy with lingering moisture but
Lacking the warmth of before.

Each strand twists in on itself, drawing
Itself up proudly into
Tighter spirals as the damp evacuates.

Long coils cling to each other
With desperation not unbecoming
Two drowning lovers.
9/3/05