Friday, April 11


Silent man, whiling away moments with your oils,
Toiling in tragic tapestries, weaving your demise.
Heart stars dwindle, dance, deviate. Trusting . . . ever trusting.
Misplaced certitude; circumspection not your nature.
Concealed fatality, moving under the concave cup of the world,
A red-cored lily--sensuous--quavering in sensitive blue space.
Overtaken, mastered, bested by betrayal, contested by gray.
Soul devoured by eaters of the dead;
Enslaving attachment rooted in your head. 
Too much a part of you--We covet our creations, as the best do.

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