Views of the Lost

She lies on silken white sheets,
dirt up above and dirt underneath.
She rests on air as thick as honey,
bones whitened like pearl lovely.

Her eyes are closed forever,
her lips are smeared with fever,
her hands are folded below her face,
locked together in eternal embrace.

She doesn't smile,
she doesn't frown;
she'll rest there awhile
down below the ground.

Because one day she was hoping
to fly away on golden wings
and one day she was walking
across the cobblestone of dreams.

A promise of her childhood
came dancing as her lover
she threw away the coulds for shoulds
and came to death like child to mother.



There is a line, of light
listen to its singing now
through the shadow in the corner
it's creeping, crawling
coming closer.

Wraps around your ankle now
cannot bend for it will break
and when the time
comes rumbling up the river
this line will turn into your noose.

A muse, a muse
we would like to see your muse
a shadow, he cries
a shadow and a line of light
there lies my broken dues.



The twisting tendrils of smoky ash
wind their way above his head,
and the ground shakes with each flash
of the skins these nightmares shed.

Smoke chars their throats from words
burning holes down through their stares,
lashes blackened to curling crisp,
as the fire spreads to taste our lips.

The heat is stony and unrecognized,
clear but hazy with dark surprise.
It means the pain has gone numb today
as the morning tilts to shadow grays.