In Time

Where do the days go?
Do they know the anguish,
the incompleteness of being.
Can they slow, as another year ends?

Then I see, how can it be
or does it matter, really
for some of us will lie and find love,
some will succeed to gather wealth

And some will be spent, searching
for newer ways and measures
to tell of simpler struggles
of the in-drawn hiss, the muted scream

At yet another night's
touch of tincture iodine
on a self raw with
the sutures of loneliness.

September 2012

As the days dry out, 

birdless, I remember the sight 

of your closed eyes,

your repose as you slept,

a dream I dared not wake.

Now I curse my cowardice

and the past, now distant beyond a bird's flight. 

Two years away, the wells of your eyes 

are depths I can't sound 

with my deaf gaze.

I should have

awakened you, after I had awakened to

the poems fluttering under your eyelids.

As the days dry out,

birdless, I regret

Your love, your lies, fool me...

and the skin crawl of your memory 

still writing poems such as these