The Morning of Her Passing

Portfolio Out of Nature

I cried with a banshee wind released
to run through elder trees
stripped bare by northern songs

the brown oak leaves
down bitter breeze blown
through footprint caves in snow

the girl I was touched fire
once, to wish on ghosts of flame
this frost burns the same

covet with the wind my limbs
frozen extend to grip the pallid sky
yet the geese migrate they fly

while life is lifted I’m left behind
to watch the wild winged escape
on the breath she took to die

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The Muse

The Muse

Waiting for Angie to pick up her pen
But she wishes to write something sweeping
Defining of the age
Biding her time on Facebook instead

But she wishes to write something sweeping
Angie won’t go where I want her
Biding her time on Facebook instead
She turns from the songs I sing to her soul

Angie won’t go where I want her
Where the feminine still beats to fire and water
She turns from the songs I sing to her soul
For a human voice, not of womanhood alone

Where the the feminine still beats to fire and water
A deep and spiritual world
Projections of a dream on an empty screen
Beneath her feet turned to half-truths

A deep and spiritual world
Under two dimensional idolatry
Beneath her feet turned to half-truths
We wrestle at night, her ego and me

Under two dimensional idolatry
A dream of hollow concave hands
We wrestle at night, her ego and me
Waiting for Angie to pick up her pen

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