An Old Man

He must have loved them much,
His children, his innocent wife.

Through rising, running, rippling tears,
his pain translates to flowing waters,
where softly, like sea-foam, float -
the memories of his past,
slowly, out to nothingness.

A fish fresh out of water,
he still flaps his slippery fins
groping for warmth - tepid coastal waters.
His rhythmic dance of slow death
has now,
carried him on wearied legs
to some mirages -
some wounded healers
carrying flaking placards
of some mistaken nobility.

He with his tried tears,
pours out again
his withered heart,
into unwilling palms,
shrinking surreptitiously
from his wizened countenance.
He curses in mumbled words,
(wrath of hellfire)
his ungrateful son.
Kisses the few kind words
(with flowing tears)
spared his way.

In the unblemished mirror,
of his lonely sorrow -
I see reflected,
me, him, all.

We are,
He is,
I am -
all, dreadfully alone.

Dec 21st, 08

No More, The Moone?

In purple loneliness,
many a-times,
when searing -
my heart throbbed,
split asunder...

In opal faithlessness,
coining rhymes,
when screaming -
my eyes sobbed,
rain, thunder...

I scarce conceived,
ever,
in splashes of crimson pain -
that inured
my bruised heart
would fold insidiously
in neat starched layers
its flightless entangled wings.
That it would cease to care,
enough.
That it would learn to live,
without loving,
enough.
That it would hunt, even scavenge,
in search of warmth,
just enough.
That it would hurt no more.
No much more.

Listless, O so listless,
once a vagabond,
this wandering gypsy -
squatting tepidly,
has shaken off colors,
all gaudy apparel.
It dances no more.
No much more.

Lifeless, O so lifeless,
once an wayfarer,
this vagrant troubadour -
speculating insipidly,
has abandoned pied pipes,
torn all manuscripts.
It sings no more.
No much more.

How, but How, O December moon?
Not having moonlight -
hurts no more.
No much more.

This apathy annihilates me,
In my own blood
I drown.

Dec. 13th, '08.