Dead and Forgotten

This empty vessel, 
Wandering restless,
Longs for resolution,
Craves absolution. 
It will not be found. 
It will not be bound.

Pouring selfish secrets
Among the rank and file,
Can't explain it all away, 
Nor try to reconcile. 
Fill me up with words.
Fill me with your mind.

The blank canvas,
Drawn and stretched
Across skeletal frames,
Reveals nothing of it's love,
It's loss, or greatest shame.
Color me with sound.
Place me in the ground.

Sinking beneath remembrances
Of generations breathing in the 
Sorrows of countless untold stories
Left to rot by the wayside.
Don't follow me down. 
Leave me here to drown.

The unbridgeable gap in 
Communication is at most, six feet.
Beyond that is far too deep and cold
To lie alone amid the stone.
Let me rest in my grave
Until the end of days.

Willing Steps

It pierces.

The wound left in passing
Becoming smooth and cold,
The heady scent of iron,
Copper-toned rust,
Simmering there
Upon opened chest.

Complex simplicity,
Nature yet unknown,
A single note, a word,
A fear, unbroken silence.
Fleeting thoughts
Dance away
From the minds net
As the unknowable
Is known.

To step willingly
Is a strange thing.
Heralded by a mix of courage,
Wild desperation and
Utter blindness.
Eyes remain shuttered
When facing the void.
There is nothing there to see.

To long for silence
So deep and pervasive
That one begins to
Cease, the mind
Quails, frightened
At its own insistence.
Actions not our own
Are then uniquely ours.

Last Call

Devoid of life and longing,
Bittersweet pain amid
Haunting representations
Of past lives and lovers.
The vital spark lost forever,
Vanished from bright orbs
Where once light entered.
Now closed eternally,
Trapping, keeping the
Sheltered light cradled
Within my hands,
Delicate and frail,
Stuttering and flickering
To the pulse of the heart
Beating wildly in my arms,
So easily crushed, destroyed,
Forgotten.
A thousand voices
Cry out as one,
Dusty, dry, and cracked,
Falls silent,
Silently.

Doorways of Life

She stood by the door, waiting.
The river whispering her name,
Its' secret songs promising
Tea parties and fantasies of the future
If she could but get there.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Her date now far too late to pick her up,
She smoothed her prom dress, a nervous habit.
Knots twist themselves in her stomach.
She cries when he does not show.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Lingering amid childhood knick-knacks,
Relics of her past. She smiles,
Calls it all a bunch of trash.
Fantasies of childhood never come true.

She stood by the door, waiting.
The church bell now ringing,
Processional march playing,
Her future husband waiting to meet her.
She steels herself for what's ahead.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Her daughter sleeping soundly,
She hums a soft lullaby,
Not wanting to wake her.
The quiet of the night envelops them.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Watching her daughter play make-believe,
Talk to friends that only she can see,
Have tea parties under willow trees
That dance amid the flowing river.

She stood by the door, waiting.
As her daughter's nervous date
Awkwardly gives her a hug hello,
Stammers out a compliment,
She finds herself wreathed in smiles.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Lingering there among things left behind,
Relics of her daughter's childhood,
Carefully packed into boxes.
She knows she will cherish them.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Her daughter standing tall and proud,
Resplendent in her wedding gown,
Full of smiles and happiness,
She wishes her the best.

She stands at the door, waiting.
For what, she doesn't know.
Her body now well worn with time,
Mind still curious and in control.
She opens the door and steps through.