All the words have gone silent.
Nothing I utter seems to touch that sense
Of holy truth, of which I played the prophet.
Of that I've only glimpsed, but this perhaps has been
This life's allotment.

Each flower blooms in turn, then withers
In the next hour, this unearned beauty falls
Like scales, mingling with the ashes
Of my poetic power, or rather
That which was never mine.

When we would meet, I felt it then,
A heat and a glowing, like joy but with
Such solemness, that in the notes
Of her strummed harp, I'd pluck a thing
That seemed to hold the world.

And now such memories only seem to bring
Fresh tortures sent to haunt
My blackened mind, to whom the thund'ring loss
Rolls about the chasms that were laid
By those Titanic strides.

And yet, this Easter morn I thought I saw,
A thing so strange to all I know of life,
Which smiled wan, as if to chide
My foolish heart, who always seems
To settle on the tragic things,
Of which none know, but this they hide.

I know in sorrow something sweet,
And rhyming with the truth,
To know that things could be no worse
Is far from worst, and most uncouth
To lead us to that fall again,
When first we learned such woe.

But strange, my heart did not recoil, nor turn
From that faint glimmer, for something so familiar
Stirred in that silence, something which possessed
My facination, and ushered in at last
That great and awful trembling.

It might be that the thing I took for silence
Was never that, but only waits
For me to cease from speaking.

Today the leaves have tinted brown,
The warbling robin's sound
Portends the forest's frosty due
That is the cost of life.
Those whispy laughs, and crying strife,
The summer days, the autumn nights
So dark, when all could listen for,
The rumblings of some beast with icy roar.
But through those trees of lover's hue,
Went whispers of that savage heart,
Who rather coaxed a mournful sight,
Bones all chattered by the drifting sky.
But now these scenes must bid Adeiu,
The foolish jests shall perish too,
That summer boys do smirk and play.
The ice will creep, the wise shall seek,
And most shall only stand and wait:
Those seeds that dream of warmth, and greener date.

I hear a piano, wild-eyed in the insanity of the Moon,
It's soft and I can barely hear it, perhaps an angel is up past her bedtime,
Playing a secret little song, a cheating song beautful enough to escape justice.
Maybe every now and then she feigns an accident,
Pushing hard on the key,
Pushing the envelope,
And something changes about the way a tree sways in the wind,
Or the way the sunbeams bounce and scatter,
Or how some animal simply looks at me,
Like they see me,
All of me.

The love which enraptures me in song,
Keeps my homely heart as his redoubt,
And when holy bells ring loud and strong,
Stands bravely dressing for the bout.
Yet she who kindles love and tries it well,
Wills not unbridled hope or earnest dreams,
But temperance by the distance of the bell,
For this she shades her lovely beams.
Terror is born from Fortune's corpse,
Love flees to the heart to weep and bide.
What can I say to such remorse
But to swear to never leave his side.
Vowing never again himself to give,
By my faith unto death, he shall yet live

Extoll the fruitful heart of orphaned man!
Who forms a new world, fashions in his hand
Cacophany: all silence shall be filled,
And sweet diversion all their senses thrill.
Let 'what to do' be now a moldy phrase,
Our Bacchus glows with neon lighted gaze!
These eating cares and tired meet forgot,
So pure delight may now alone be sought.
Yet in that dream a partial moon yet calls
Her sons to pensive shadowed saffron hue.
Lonesome treks, the scorn of all things small,
True fame and all the rest they ought to do.
Yet too shall come, when hairs are old and grey,
To set this down, and carry on their way.