II. Hear

And when I saw it, I wanted to see none of it.
But when I saw it, I needed to see it.
It was just the shell. It meant nothing.
Stiff but powerless still,
embalmed but feckless.
It's dead. It'll rot.
And it's not you.

My inner eye blinks, mused fingers stroke.
I play you into every frequency and wavelength
so that you remain afloat
Above this streaming body of sound
where you've escaped the fall of once-crowned man,
and rise with the swelling dynamics, heard as only the just can.

Hear, not the melody
but instead the overtones.
Harmony in discord
endless, hear, in my bones.
I know this is you,
see, no drear
even in silence,
listening-
Here.

I. The grasp

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. 
-J. Shirley 

Selfish

There really was only one thing I wanted for my birthday. In my dreams I made a deal with a black magic man to bring you back. You were just how you were before: bright eyes, full cheeks, warming smile. "How are you my friend?" and a fake punch to the shoulder. I hear your voice echoing through the house. The songs you love to sing easing my nerves. The sound of your shoes from the way one foot dragged a tad more than the other. It's not time to play hide and seek- come out, come out, wherever you are.

 Please...?






I miss you.
God I miss you so bad.

Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.