In The Smoke Of A Distant Fire
The greasy smoke touched sky
from the council fires by the river.
In lodges the hungry babies cry,
looked down upon by Life Giver.
Rifles and arrows placed in quiver
as the warriors stand battle ready.
Awaiting the dawn's light I shiver,
holding my gray horse steady.
I carefully target and let lead fly,
not sure why these people must die.
In Blue
A picture not yet taken,
Lying upon a soft flower blanket
Of baby blue
I see you.
Your smile
Makes the camera wish
To keep you forever.
I smile back.
It amazes me
How your face
Has been imprinted on my mind
Since the day we met.
Yes, I opened up my heart
Sometimes I wish for more
Control over my feelings,
As I hunger for you.
Someday I may forget,
Like deleting images,
Off a digital camera,
And your face will fade.
But today,
In this warm place
I am picturing the love
We could have made.
A picture not yet taken,
Lying upon a soft flower blanket
Of baby blue
Is how I chose to see you.
If Time Breaks Down
Tick, tick, ticking.
If time breaks down,
and all the watches,
shudder to a stop,
leaving us with silence
where their maddening ticking
should be,
will we crave the sound
we imagine would drive us mad
like the tell-tale heart
of a Poe poem of old?
Tick, tick, ticking.
At a quarter past midnight
in the obsidian black,
with a clock creeping
slowly toward the witching hour,
sleepless we await the end,
of sleeplessness,
and hate the
monotonous sound,
so like a beating heart.
Tick, tick, ticking.
I imagine it is no less
comforting for a bomb technician
to count down
minutes and seconds,
knowing that as the hands
inch closer to midnight,
or high noon,
that an end does not bring comfort,
but an end, nonetheless.
Tick, tick, ticking.
The clock's steady,
irritating pulse
mocks me as I lay here.
I wonder if anything is on TV,
besides infomercials
and advertisements for sleep aids
and comfortable mattresses.
Perhaps I will read a bit,
the final chapters in
the Dark Tower saga await.
Tick, tick, ticking.
If time breaks down,
and all the watches,
shudder to a stop,
leaving us with silence
where their maddening ticking
should be,
will we crave the sound
we imagine would drive us mad
or will we finally,
eternally sleep?
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