Within Reach

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When all hope has died
And dreams pale against the night
There is always spring

 

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Car Crash

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I think I overlooked him
despite greatness
breathing under garment.
And I dared to flick away that neon boldness,
which said,
‘You’re too late for this.
I think I was,
but, nevertheless, I dove in –
for within us lies a far distant screech.
And who knows what love really is,
and ultimately what is out of reach?
Braced only for the ultimate collision,
I put my foot down.

The Keeper

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I am the keeper of lost things,
those intangible imprints of  wasted life,
destined to become the destroyer of goodness
and maker of sadness.
I am the collector of vast hauls and hoards,
since time is thievery and accomplice to cruel
love; both take from me, in swift exchange,
my things for harsh space, only to become
entangled in remnants of incomplete thought,
and ‘til sunken eyes and gestures sweep a vile ground –
where lies all a memory cannot contain.
Don’t blunt me with spells and vain speech,
or artistry, somewhat incomplete – you’re of foul tongue.
So consider that, all of these splattered blanks
make this canvass bare –
wouldn’t thou pain if my picture lay there?

Evening Bell

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The ancient bell
of the temple summons
lost spirits to prayers;
murk figures roam alone
unacquainted on snow covered
mountains where peaks punctuate
streaming cauldron clouds, drawing birds
that circle the meditative winds.
Chimes from the west
bring the mist in to wander
with the wind from the east –
dusk strikes the temple bell
for worship; the tranquil mist then rolls away
and vanishes to re-join the hawks circling
the snowy peaks in peaceful
glide.