When taking one more breath becomes what hurts the most,
to put oxygen in blood that flows through the chambers of a
shattered nautilus to a mind better left without memories…
Memories that never go anywhere but to the cracked, grayed,
faded old mirror that somehow still reflects one last, sickly,
fraudulent gleam of hope in a dark room….

Then only one choice remains, in this importunate faerie world
where everyone lies to themselves and cheats their own hand
at solitaire played by two’s in front of a crowd of laughter
What choice is this you may ask, but you know, don’t you—
know the glaring, searing pain when you open the fucking door,
leaving sunlight to burn away the ashes of a lost embrace….

There are no ends, there are only means, and endless openings
to the labyrinth of souls in which the air is too cold to breathe,
blood too stiff to flow, mind too inconsequential to exist
in any universe but this unholy purgatory that would be hell,
if not for that damned single ray of hope that won’t diminish,
won’t give in, won’t let a broken heart finally be consumed….
If only to lie awake in the dark

The watchful gaze shone down,
and then the blade, deep and swift…
Made even gentle bloodied sunrise,
too terrifying for my eyes

Days in hiding came to nights where,
sleep superfluous, I slept not…
Until I shed that sacrificial skin,
now poisoned, now unholy, now thin

And seeing it no longer as my own,
I marveled at its hoary creeds, barnacles…
Its gruesome rust of well-intentioned lusts,
turned water swift to clinging mud

Now free of age, of sins partaken,
a naked Adam in a sweet garden…
Timeless, weightless, a sanctity of soul,
natural man, new-made, now whole

An empty urn,
the barren bowl,
a vase awaiting
one pregnant rose

A table barren
of knight’s tableau,
stools surrounding
in retched repose

An earthen mug,
Pan’s pool in spring,
a coin no longer
worth its weight

Each grounded in its
reason, spherically
precluding its sin—
That ringing at the gate

A life-lived-not falters,
yet blindly clings to fate,
blind Themis holds in
balance still, the cup—
She chose too late

What happens the first instant
after our world’s end
Is everything still, the pendulum
that lost its surly swing

Does the carven clock sit idle,
not quite enough “cuck”
to manage one more koo—
But still, there’s something left

Or is it a different sort of spring,
not then unwinding fate
But coiling tightly, tighter still
until it snaps, breaks free

Destroys the maker’s hand,
rips down the veil of heaven
And damning every prophet,
sheds wild starlight, wand’ring still

If you should go before me,
I’ll re-read every line you ever wrote me,
every thought we shared so late,
the daily noise of our existence,
condensed to fiery keystrokes by weary fingers

I’ll see, in every moonlit glade,
and every time 
there are no shadows in the trees,
that special light that always made you shine,
brightened stars suspended in oil-filled globe,
shimmering with delight and forgiveness,
waiting patiently to climb the wick
and burn my fingers when I strike the match

And I’ll hear your music,
you never knew I listened—did you,
not with ears, but with my heart,
and it will soothe me to dreamless slumber
when tears soak my pillow in endless twilight

I’ll remember every hungered kiss and every time
you found me hiding under our oak and scolded me
for putting off the work I should have done
I won’t put it off any longer
There’ll be nothing left for me but work
All the world gone grey, the mists
 of my memories
like a blanket
 smothering my tomorrows

But I won’t leave when you have gone
I will pay the tab for the time you gave,
finish everything we planned that autumn morn,
before I lock the gate behind me,
and follow breadcrumbs scattered on the loam