Short Stories

Every touch receptive,
senses heightened to
the pinnacle of love,
not alone now, but with
a predilection for faith,
hungry now, yet willing
to wait for the end of time,
without foresight, blindly
following a bruised heart,
calmness descends along
the brooding mind, as
her image arises again
up through the cataclysm,
shimmering in the
breast of black-winged
night, protecting the
innocents, and a man
who forgot how to
forgive himself,
yet still there is
promise,
the sun also rises
in the embrace of hope.

Port Window

Three silver moons wrapped around
her fingers, demurely bathing
in the morning mist, lips
pressed against the stained glass,
candied prison, melting the heart,
steeling the nerves on the turn
of the knife, in the distance,
a keen-eyed reflection, divine
by the rights of men, stands
warily, beckoning ancient vessels
to port, silently, across
amber waves, into the jagged
graveyard of the sea.

Tornado

Here in the darkness,
the silence echoes
around the cavernous
mind, a keepsake
of discordant love,
broken now, splintered
across a chasm,
unhindered from the
heat of the bloody
red moon, dripping with
good intentions, like honeyed
words from a liar's lips,
as the dagger slowly drives
into a forlorn heart, smiling
sweetly all the while, as porcelain
fingers devour all that is left behind,
one hand washing the other, till the
wounds turn raw, and dead eyes fervently
scan the horizon for a way out,
up through the darkness now descended,
a mirage, clearly reminiscent of a kiss
now turned to ashes dancing on the playful
wind, on the crumbling earth, laid to rest.