I keep a light house, on a grey sea.
Lead the ships home through rocks.
The waves crash and crash forever.
Always ships to lead home at night.
In the twilight, sky drenched in colors.
I sit on the rocks, and the mermaid comes.
We sit together as sun and color fade.
Two strangers finding some company.
She brings fish that we eat, communion.
She sings beautiful songs I don’t understand.
I tell her of the love I lost in youth.
We are solace in the cold world.
I kiss her on her head, chaste affection.
She looks into my eyes, touches my cheek.
Then she’s back underwater, gone.
And I go to light the lantern bright.
But we’ll meet again, at twilight.
I kissed her cheek, even with the make up that paled her face, a faithful witch.
Halloween, last time before the end of the world, our last time for ghosts.
We dance, slow swaying, at the party, a song about woman’s ghost yearning.
The veil was thin, and voices of lost souls swooned, and witch, you had your spells.
You touch my face, stroke my cheek. Haunted and ghostly, we are free.
Cheerleader, in burnt orange uniform and white, long sleeved turtleneck, stands in front of the empty football stands.
She is waiting for her man, as the day fades away into a burnt orange like her uniform, and the air cools, and the night calls for mischief.
Pitter patter her heart goes, not knowing she was blessed to be between centuries, between the fall of the beer and the fall of the towers.
There was no fear in the blood colored leaves or the cool nights or in the jet fighters from the air base howling in the sky above.
She turns, and sees him, tall and strong, and she smiles and feels warm and hopeful, and she thinks on that moment, that it will last forever.
I listen to love songs,
Late into the night.
Dreams of passion,
Of enchantment in winter.
In the dark of my room,
I can dream of her kiss
And the feel of her touch.
Her and I can touch stars.
The melancholy sounds,
The longing lyrics and voice.
All I hope love can be someday.
Will she look my way?
The forest gives way to desert,
And a rabid preacher man on
The radio goes on and on about
The end of the world. Hallelujah!
The end is always near, but has
Not yet come, the sword swings on.
The desert is going dry and losing
The hope of fools living in love.
The highway leads to the sea,
Where, in the east, the archangel
Fell, losing heaven, gaining the world.
If it rains on New Year’s Day, we are forgiven.
Sirens all during the night.
Disease? Destruction? Despair?
I don’t know. I try to sleep.
Sirens, a different sort, sea maidens.
The songs I hear out in the river.
They would take me down forever.
Morning, little rest, no peace.
Warnings and temptations.
All out there, Death’s servants.
The water is muddy and polluted.
The world devours itself, endlessly.
Another day is another day.
The radio plays nothing good, nothing that makes you feel.
Better is silence, the hum of the winds and the rolling wheels.
Before the sun is up, there is a peace that might almost be real.
If I drove north, to the forests and cold, could I finally heal?
She stands in damp navy blue hoodie, as the misting rain falls, glistening in her honeyed hair, up in braids around the crown of her head.
The streets are cleaner and clearer as we are told to hide ourselves away, haunted and still full of voices.
She walks the cracked and dirty sidewalk, heading to a job that fuels the war, and the fading hope of change.
The rain is cool, and her brow is untroubled, and a damp hoodie is the right kind of heavy to weigh down demons.
One more quiet moment before the bus for essential workers come. Across the street, in the brush, is a skinny fox, hungry, angry and beguiling.
A remnant of magic, in a dying world.
They play the explosion over and over again on TV, until trauma becomes mantra.
Death either seared into our minds, or made rote, a spell cast too late, as the day is here forever.
As we watch on TV screens, we are altars bathed in blood, we are death like in our witness.
As it all falls, as the time between centuries crumbled, the bloodshed cast the spell that now brings the end.
Decades later, I look out on my city, knowing it is a shuffling body, running out of time, as war comes again.
And never ends, until we end.
I dream of that day, when I spent a winter afternoon in her arms, brand new to love.
All was well. I was at peace. I was innocent.
A sunny morning, in the cold of spring, as the sun comes up as our world and our hope crumble.
I wonder if anything in this world will ever be that sweet again.