Encounters of the Lonely

Pursuing breathing eyes
in a room full of ghosts.

Glimpsing into one another
we see past blood and bones.

Language is nearly silent;

we will speak only through smiles.

My heart unraveling
everything your eyes wish to veil.

Your fingers delicately graze my hand
transforming tingles up my spine.

Your hair gently shifts
when the cool air blows beside.

It is only our first meeting
yet I’ve known you every day.

My best friend in disguise;
blooming flowers in blue eyes,
but you’ll only stay a while.

Glory For Fools

In the meadows of unspoiled green,
where darkness brings no fear,
this is where they want to be.

Fruits dwell on ancient trees eternally,1
and the birds seldom long to fly south
in the meadows of unspoiled green.

No concern of war from sea to sea,
without end coexisting happily;
this is where they want to be.

Loved ones dully sip their tea
while masses of people shroud
the meadows of unspoiled green.

Whilst you take their lives infinitely,
eating their carcasses, animals never flee;
this is where they want to be.

But I’d rather walk through the fall of leaves,
through the death of things
than in the meadows of unspoiled green,
where they are all dying to be.

1: Inspired by Wallace Stevens Sunday Morning

No Love In February

If it weren’t for those who brought me tears,
these grins wouldn’t be so wide; or
could this bitter snow have made me?

Nor would I be so wise, so subtle in disguise,
bringing so many their lost smiles,
if it weren’t for those who brought me tears.

All the drafty winters, barely luminous summers
at the small house above two hills;
could this bitter snow have made me?

The small school with the smaller playground
would be forgotten in time
if it weren’t for those who brought me tears.

And the green grasses faded
yellow, soon covered by white;
the bitter snow could have made me.

Yet I wonder how it would be,
becoming me
if it weren’t for those who brought me tears, or
Could this bitter snow have made me?