Roads of Ill

 

Roads of Ill

 

What turn; what diversion – what way

Have we made that brings us to this day?

When the better part of all

Is one that does not call

To nearness; nor offers weirdness

Along the roads of ill

Strewn in carrions of kill.

 

What is this place of strange nests?

Where tubes and blips speak of rests

That hold care and love in isolation

So that breath is not immolation

Of limb, life, and - civilization.

And so, the circle, the center, the point

Are One - that cannot self-anoint. 

  

Endless Winter

 

The narrowing days consume the aperture’s light

As winter’s hands dress the warm soil in blankets of white

And too, summer’s passions flicker away into the last embers

Before a frigid grasp claims foolish lovers; lost and not at home

Safe, in golden slumber; awaiting the sweet songs of spring’s rite

That gainsay a death’s epilogue and ease the peril one remembers:

How the isolation and regeneration grasses of brome

Swayed and soothed away an endless winter’s night.