A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Ours will be
No shooting star
To burn up soon,
Without a trace,
Or like the moon
That shines afar,
No smile upon her face,
But as the sun
So warm, so bright,
Our days are spun
With rays of light,
Threads of fire,
Woven gold,
Young love's desire
While hearts grow old.


Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Watch me, as I start to fall,
Although I love not my reflection,
I'm besotted by perception,
As if the spaces in between
Demand the separation seen.
Thus, with arms full do I carry
That which unity would marry,
Gifts abundantly received,
All duly labelled to deceive,
For quantity to naught amounts,
Forgetful of the thought that counts.


Once more, I'm left here,
Howling at the moon,
The elusive scent of love
That so captivated me,
Broken up,
On the winds of uncertainty.

That call I hear in answer,
Is it the soft voice of
A distant soul,
Or just my own faint echoes?

The last cold glimpse
Of the moon
Slips out of sight
Behind the enclosing
Silhouette of the mountains.

Silence returns,
Save for the amused mockery
Of an occasional night bird,
Questioning my wisdom.


Sometimes silence is
The most painful sound to hear,
And absence,
The most intolerable guest to entertain,
Yet both those intruders more welcome are,
Their stark honesty more comforting,
Than fakery masquerading as faith,
Trust, fashioned from falsehood.
An imposter deep inside your heart,
A cuckoo cast from stone,
Nestled there upon stolen down,
Usurping true love from its throne.


Upon the back of grassblade host,
Gently bowed,
No longer but a shapeless ghost
The breath of night is born
Into a jewel of light,
Restrained awhile,
In the still untrodden dawn.