the white mystic

a man with golden flaxen hair
walks with mighty breathless air
and soundless hooves from freshest snow
under the mooney glow he stares

and on his mighty stamping steed
he climbs up mountains of golden sand
and remembers stories in ancient words
these ancient people never heard

with books of leather bind he writes
with sea-born ink, and quill in hand
a pouch of yeast to make the leavened bread
while others in their hovels sleep

the smokes did rise and in their hovels they do weep
these people with their glory and their leagues
with a feathered quill he does write
with all his glory and his might

intro-spection

my eyes are my own
in a twisted wilderness
sworn to tantrums
of emotion
swarming up from the ground

I watched from a tower
as cool winds embraced
the guitar
of a twilight
like an unknown lyre

my voice is my own
and the swirling books
of an endless night
become patronage

I wander, stricken
swallowed up by trees
towering in tablets
learning me

shock

the bellowing sky
reached up
and I tasted nickel
cool and fast

the acrid smell of skin
clothed in scent
tied to the trees
of an endless sky

I watched a colorless
moon, lift up into heaven
empowered by the scene
of a tormented soap

the towers of a slow sky
shot into our slain
mischief

I lost myself in the clothes
of a daunted booth
a carnival of lost children
who walked unknown