To know that the world,
Is as colorful even now,
As it seems, in the vintage monochromes;
Silent in their chorus of a bygone time,
Is a sweet thought with sour taste,
For how are we to dwell and dissolve,
One with the eternal moment,
And yet be remembered,
As a sole flower in the bouquet,
If years away from now,
Fading against the flow,
We are to remain nothing more than a shade of each other.


The Colonnades

The wind tastes of stale season,
Filaments of it dry from disuse,
Twist and turn, twist and turn,
Into morsels for those,
Who have nothing less,
And wish nothing more.

Wait inside,
Let the walls fall down,
For wide in the open,
There is no one around,
Only a yawning road leading away,
Into a darkness done in artistic way,
From whence spills laughter; lost voices sorrow,
Wishful pretenders of a belated tommorow.

Wayside rises Colonnades; meaningless, grotesque,
Attempts at perfection,
Pillars of pain,
Heaved by hands, long buried under. Wonder-less, vacant eyes,
Still life, still life,
Breathing in the earth,
The moisture, the metal
The irony, the mirth.

Their raised fists, now barnacled;
In iron forged upon
A green glade, now barren,
Weaned and watered, once;
By the hands long buried,
Under wayside colonnades.

So the ghosts have gathered,
For a better afterlife,
Pale mouths, witnesses, sing
And march in naked apparel,
For a debt long unpaid,
By those visionary,
By the blind men,
Who dreamt of the colonnades.

Sailing Shores.

Tell me,
If we meet,
Where the sky greets the sea,
Will we fare the ageless tides,
As moonlight in oyester lay,
And be bound as a pearl forever,
To be found some beautiful day.
From the goblet of a thousand stars,
Choose one never leading astray,
Build a ship out of the very salt,
So the sea itself shows the way,
And when we reach that virgin shore,
With the sunset trailing behind,
We do the deed of kindness,
Free all pearls we can find.