another poem

2
the words that go unspoken on the color of the sun

have all but allueded me--these deep hours,
and the wave of grief, having greetted my own disaction
letting slip urgent breaths, divine dreams like pages
--a book that I cannot finish under a sleep of conformed living
and then there is the regret, a folding of the mind in its own languish

breathless they are, these dreams I hug nightly
fitful and raw, wearing heavy on the conscience
whether I will retain the kernel of light in my present worry
forces a quick scribble of words, as if time for writing will end
and love, like water, like sand, will fade from the formworks
of my musings. a candle in the wind, before the killing gust.

and yet memories not as if dying fruit have aromas
that do not share the mortality of clocked time.
petals that once plucked do not fade into an intert gray
but retain colors deeper than a color can really be
and words do not justice even when they are aptly hewn
from a lover’s lips, from moments emblazoned in grace.

They lie down—such muses—if they are not asked properly
Sleeping until a heart, a soul awakens delight.
Eyes startled in the early morning as sun creeps in.
Slowed time momentarily here—now gone with such speed.
That even the mind forgets of its waking times.
That even nocturnal tomes cannot breath air actual, real.

And when a life strikes chord against the repeating days
Resounding in the space of a hurried glimpse breath fails
Time stops in the mind—a string plucked out of tune
Joys of a simpler day return to the edges of routine
Renderings record themselves on the back side of the mind
Only to slip under and sleep there—guarded not by strength but weakness