At best in the ring of stone

the bones melt into ash,

initialed by leaves of shade.


overwhelmed one cannot be,

gravity left the carvings here


the poet passes with bliss

previewing fading echoes


the paupers blistered carnival

drifts into the burning  fog


silhouettes of the broken sun

proceed to the fractured black.


a plea for the herbs to grow

falls on shoulder of the morn


rumors ripple from the rough,

the mystic has spilled wine.


where winter now begins

incense spreads the paradise.


there is a well trained spirit

and salt of tempered smile.


the  ease of  there forever

the center of an empty dark,








Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s