Deeper Water Awaits

Deeper water awaits;
and with it, the dark creatures,
lurking residents of eternal night,
visitors of your realm of dreams;

deeper water lures;
and yet it alienates, this dark creature,
embodiment of ancient scars,
repository of your humanity and hope;

deeper water calls;
to tread lightly, swim surely,
dive for past and future and pearls,
to separate silt from stars

and resurface to air and light.

Master of Masks

I’m a master of masks,
I carved them all by expert hand
for each day and season,
place and occasion,
from graceful to angry,
stubborn gnarly wood
or shining silver,
polished, refined
as gossamer swords
and fairy wings of Damascus steel;
I wear one to the ball
and two on the train,
spares at hand and more in a chest,
changing faces in swivel chair turns,
polishing paste the new perfume
and sawdust the season’s look;
I’m their master,
and they are mine.

Time in Flames

When did the sun
turn into wolves of flames,
ember foxes, deer on fire
blazing meteor-trails through fields,
leaving acres of burning days,
scorching the night
blacker than starless nights,
darker than new moon;
when did the future first burn,
fire licking up brittle ashes
from calcinated ground?

(For possible later use in a different project.)

Wild Code

I write in code
I speak in dreams,
covering the street in riddles,
I connect the stars
tracing the paths of wolves
in the white snow
of the Milky Way;

the sparks of wild hearts
in the deepest, oldest caves

beneath motion eternal,
glimpses of what is


Facetted Realities

Broken into reflections,
irregular facets, light shattered
cracked shards of prism fragments,
incoherent representations
mirrored in silver flakes and rainbow scales
moving, shifting, abstract shapes,
edges blurred by angles,
lines warped beyond reality,
fractals replacing clear-cut borders,
multitude of possible interpretations
of beginning, of end, of being.

You Are Winter

You turn to ice in the veins of winter,
crystallising words and world around you,
you trap the cold in your lungs
stopping jet streams
and migrating birds,
stopping them in their tracks
for half a journey,
half a life;
you swallow their sun,
making yourself the gate of arctic night,
falling in snowflakes,
breaking the branches,
freezing them mid-fall,
stopped in winter time