Conception

how the night consumes
the dread of a waked man
with but a chilled breeze
caressing numbed lips
rending the pink flesh – jagged
weighting bended knees

could i come to know
could i come to stand again
braced for a season
of black, frigid nights
draped above throttling snow
quieting reason

hushed – dumb – low – peaceful
the absence an oppression
yet of some comfort
there may i cocoon
to shut out all creation
there may i avert
Conception

the night i lit a candle

the night i lit a candle
to see my waking love
rise and sigh – gentle delights
designed by my own tongue

i found my lover lapsed – bound
her face sheathed in shadow
dancing walls and i appalled
by spirits dark – callow

blessed be; be these from me
my light cast back, yet strange
this love-loathed rot bore avarice
that clothed me like a mange

and danced from me to beauty
then stole away my love
this candle light, once delight
eclipsed what we’d become

now left, my light, long extinguished
burned through wick and tallow
i do see – encompassed me
the cast of my own shadow

To Seasons

My mother says I must confess
But how am I to choose?
Between the green of summer’s seeds
And autumn’s humbled hues

Were but I solemn all my days
Content to grow my hair
And boiling pots with savory stocks
To season crisping air

Could I with ease – could I then choose
A beauty with the name
A dying season, warmed but not
Remembered why I came

Then – oh – this summer came to call
And cast her fever near
My beating heart, all torn and taught
From years of autumn’s wear

But still her dream puffs eyes to sneeze
And robs the night’s repose
Too early she sings her harmony
Before I can propose

So mother, I ask – say – confess
Between loves, can I choose?
I greed the green of summer’s seeds
And autumn’s muted muse

I live in a nation of mirrors

I live in a nation of mirrors
Others see themselves, I see me
Or, at least, what we think
– their reflections to be
And behind the mirror – ruffled husks
Serviced and bowed – bent and rust
Exhausted and dehydrated
– awash in a salted sea

Never what we are
What we are in-conceived
Once dewombed consumed by Moloch’s machine
– Dissonant; devoid; paranoid androids
– without rest or right or peace
A consonant chorus of ii (いい)

A nation of mirrors; opinion – disease
– no break from the cycle
– each dissent an idol
– golden calf hidden
Deviation divination ’til concurs society

From top to bottom; from grave to cradle
Should one cog falter come Moloch’s ravel
And I the willing, exotic participant
Heating sand to a more perfect reflection
As diseased as I be
It’s here I find haven

No one sees me
– am I craven?