The Young Son

The father,
a man,
the alpha of their world,
sweats and toils,
scavenges for twigs,
dry leaves
and some spirit
to light up
their lives...
For the son, angry,
will set in a bit.
The sun will leave his home,
chasing flesh,
in the dark recesses
of his fiery
red mind.

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The Dying Winter

The clearing fog...

The receding moisture

from your eyes;

the sun, occasional,

playing a heavenly hide n seek.

The small drops of passion...

Dew in the morn,

sweat at high noon,

whiskey at twilight,

and sleepless at midnight.

Dark Matter

I needed this today,

yes I did, a darker shade;

this fallen grid grants my wish

and it's still not Christmas yet.

I lay bare, steadying my nerves,

urging the only truth I know

to embalm me gently, slowly,

head to toe, it's my coffin.

It began... a pale white hue,

life drains from my eyes;

then I see dark red,

but that blood thins out too.. It's emptiness!

No! No... This flash blinds me,

drags me away, far from rest,

from silence, from my home;

to face 'em all, the only reality.