Dreaded Whispers

Strokes of moonlight smother
the inflorescent
whispers of the smoke bush –

fighting, but wavering against twilight’s
ghostly dreams,
it drapes the water,
pondering depth and death,

and, whereupon streaks of my childhood run
wildly ‘til they bleed into the perfect pink wash –
disrupted only briefly by daubs of
my more morbid notions –

a thousand indigo butterflies
dotted like inky death
become pinned to the eerie flatness of still water
and life –

finally, my drowning memories
are absorbed by stagnant fluid –
the whispers are hushed in the black, dead air
where mosquitoes live instead,
and for the first time, I begin to thrive.

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Melancholia

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Woodcut by Albrecht Dürer

I feel like I am drifting
call me close.
The sky is not uplifting
small the dose
of despair’s bitter taste and remedies.
Tomorrow’s sun is shy
the moon is high tonight
should I die,
and if I do I won’t know
what your summer was like
or what your winter will be
all the while without me.
Will the birds sing sweetly still,
or will summer cry a misty chill
when haunting autumn sweeps a melody
of dead leaves chasing our abandoned tree?
Cling to me but wrap yourself tenderly
in warmer summer days.

I feel I have been taken,
hold me near.
These dreams are not for waking,
all in fear –
no colours here amid sleeping hope
tomorrow’s day is turned to night
but morning is here
I will die tonight –
but before I do, tell me
what you will do without me
and how you will send me
into spring’s warm arms awaiting
summer’s amber smile abating
into autumn’s cooler sating
of the ambling seasons all
longing for winter’s sigh –

I feel like I am slipping
hold my fears…

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