A Pen Is

a pen is in my hand
standing on the edge of eden
unfurled fruition of fancied frolic
or icy exile of self domain

imminent refrain
constraining commune
immune yet immured
as marred as marital malady
the mighty unmentionable

extension of our pretense
portending wrath so tender
rending mathematics
moot as mute mire’s mooring

Upon the Hourglass’ Turn

swaying blades of peridot

alight amid azurite horizon

of clement citrine sunset

in velveteen palanquin

draped in silk brocade

jade hairpin askew

wonted truth presaging

the seizing solemnity

by crook of Anubis

we tendered the ferryman’s toll

stolid in this stagnant state

as fate shed its veils before us

upon the hourglass’ turn

emergent, we shuffled off

our toilsome coils rejoicing

Ephemeral Souls

unabashed silphium sleeve
impassioned pleas
uttered free from restraint

spirit, bold as black damask
in meadows of pasque
with prose unsurpassed

peculiarly non pareil
pressed onto parchment
in prismatic pigments sprawling

arranged in the strangeness
of strands set at random
expanding in nebulous bloom

wreath of sloe flowing
in slow rippled cadence
diffusely drawn out reaching all

as an echo eternalized
amid jutting earth scarred
and scattering sky of ensconcing

ethereal energies emanate
from mien marred by mask
of perpetual phantom interface