A Rich Man

Move o'er me flash of gray,
Swiftly
along the crumbling sidewalks,
like a reaper, bony hands extended
deftly plucking gullible souls,
from dark corners and back-alleys,
the watchful ones,
will be the last to fall,
O' scythe, pass over me,
even as the blood of innocents
drips in my cup,
travel further towards the
gathering storm, cleanse your blade
in the great flood,
"I am king!" Or so I said,
but that pretence is gone now,
replaced with icy dread,
and the choice is clear,
no prince can become a pauper,
but one can reign in the
fires of hell.

Nine

Tired
Head rested
upon old stained
pillow, eyes full of
dark-blue morning mist, when
the moon is slowly dying while
rosy dawn reclined, still amidst warm
slumber, the bed remains cold comfort again,
ensnared in the silky web of time, while
the spider spins fate in a thousand mirrors, tarnished
by abandonded hopes and splintered dreams, in the
silent room, turning away from that empty
spot, averting a lonely gaze, fixed
now, spent on cracked plaster
painted by the hint
of sweet sunrise,
and honeyed
words.

July 9th

Wow, this year is flying by...I can't believe my son will be 14 tomorrow July 10th. I'm also observing the 4th anniversary of my daughter's death July 15th. It's going to be a week a major peaks and valleys, a week of happiness and sorrow, but more importantly a week that ends with a limbs and sanity intact.

Since I don't believe in any kind of religion per se, it's difficult to use the word prayer in that context. But I am
'praying" for the strength to see this week through without having to resort to all the old tried and false methods of coping. Let's just say that I will.

Church Bells

Lost in the cotton clouds,
Painted by dying flames
Embers in west, softened by
the humid streets,
The church bells, ringing true,
Filling the air with dulcet tones,
Lonely atop the old stone tower,
Carved by strong hands,
the hopes of an young man,
with an ancient heart,
looking desperately o'er the rooftops
for the life he used to know,
when firmament of body and soul
was so much clearer, now bent and
Broken like a casualty of war,
somewhere amongst the people,
crawling below like so many ants,
a fate shall be matched,
whether it be one or a hundred years,
those pale blue eyes
will know themselves once again.