The Solitude of Frescoes

Silence among the frescoes.
From the grace of golden clouds no hand reaches forth;
the figure’s face, dripping beneath the memories
sustains the look without the weight that weathered.
In his eyes, the rain;
in theirs, a can without preamble;
in hers, a note  these halls no longer echo.
There are no borders, save the cracks time rendered
to resonate vogue vagaries into the earth beyond
where roots have seeped into the author’s boots
drinking up the vivification of his solitude;
drowning in the depths of isolation.

Curling at the Edges

Roiling at the seams

in browned spots

the print, smeared

still holds flecks of the image

the profile was meant to be.

 

Lower, still

the ageless quality of a tree

rising from the hunched cranial

(let us admit: too large) cavity

rooted in the faded flesh

our fingerprints

 

so gently blurred;

without a stream to drink from

it curled and devoured

the paper that gave it breath.

Perhaps, even, its branches

would die to give us this moment.

 

I have heard it called quaint,

our gentle hording

of a memory,

 

but the thoughts that resurrected

the flesh beyond those roots

was once quite dear

though without the stream

it rippled free into distortion

like the beating of a dream

 

of a drum, of a thought;

the water carried me away

one day

rootless under the surface

with nothing but the edges

of a curling notion.

Forgotten Tower

Black waters dripping from a lonely tower,

The watch fires long since died.

Crumbling bricks betray its tale—

Its friends have long since passed it by.

Grasses overgrown, it stands secluded,

Cut off from the world beyond—

Weeping as a child in the bitter night.

A stray mouse prods the rotting mass—

The tower crumbles down.

Another vivid memory

Has faded into dark.