Uncertainty.

She wore her comely edge like the frayed hem of her dress
Uncertain of its origin
Derived from possibly the delicate nature of the fabric and/or her soul
It could be the curve of her nose, or the dip that slips to her lips
Or how and like the dress flows until frayed
The comeliness that is predictable and obvious to the voyeur
But to her, she sees...
The tattered hem that is so much like her
Even as the lace grabs her bosom, accentuating
Drawing ever closer those that would or should see her faltering grace
Maybe not, as her mouth shines a luminous red
So does the roses embroidery delicately on the landscape of her silken dress
And it is all about the comeliness of uncertainty
This common thread of humanness and frayed edges

The Rose

What in strange moments can bring this rose, weeping
Softening the thorns, its beauty diminished by each flow
Sun wilted upon dewy breath it pleads before God
Seeking refuge within your hands
To have such lips upon its essence
Shall stop the death of the endless weeping
Surreal the time that mounts between each caress
Where the rose lingers from lack of keeping
Always silent, always weeping

The letter.

I wrote you yesterday
Tears shed spiritual blood
Ink blended, faded blue
Beneath weighted wet
Words weary quivered from pen
I miss you seeped from nib
Unreason and I united
Mesmerized momentarily
Lingered sad
Written rhythmic tempo shook
Cursive tenderness never before said
Signed, I love you
Fear seizes
Letter lays, sealed unread

Being There

And as if reason had anything to do with it
As the river flowed, almost as if through me
And in the shallowness of the brook
The coolness of its essence a small, constant swiftness
That sent the length of my hair freely floating
As if the water were snow, being just deep enough
My arms would move, pushing upon the wetness
And as if I could fly through its current
I would mark the water, as I had done with snow
Angelically, serenely, with my presence
I would hold in reverence all that was about me
Touching upon its remarkableness
To even the field beyond
Where I could see the lilies that where present
And I would tremble not from the cold
But from the grandness that was inescapable
I am transparent at those times; being still…
So even my breath longs to linger, even after its time

Fear

As somber as the moon
When the light of the harvest has waned
The cold creeps upon my bed
As the shivers I feel
Cast dreaded doubt, deep within my bones
The crisp of my sheets grow wintry
As the dew sits upon the sill
My shadow ever narrower
Against the crack of the paint that peels
The tick of the clock once silent
Unheard, for merry noise filled this place
Now is engulfed with an ominous voice
As the hour chimes a hideous strike
Plank floorboards creak without footsteps
Calling my name on approach
No warmth I find beneath linens and wool
As my head bends and curls in the dark
Where my body does lie
This is not an insipid moment
But the blow of something near
Treacherous to the living, something that I fear
It ask not of my opinion, though I grown privy to its lust
As it seeks to pull me to it, through the dark I cannot trust
And it would lend itself to the cessation, to my heart I now can hear
To the silence of my reason, to the blackness of the gloom
That grows inside of everything, deep within my room

The Orchid

It was pressed hard within the worn yellow pages
The hard-bound book of "War and Peace"
Spoke well of their years together
The scent long past
The orchid with its delicately tied bow
Now just remnants; dried with curled satin
It had been yesterday, so it seemed
With a smile gingerly she placed it
Now she felt the decay
The feeling was old and crumbled as the pages
Leading to tears congregating and saturating the inscription
"My darling, I will always love you"
The wetness then traveled through the volume
Staining the blank last page