A Cold Rock in the Center . . .

       Tonight . . .
               the full moon stares down with a stillness that
                                       is as hard as ice . . a cold rock sailing
                       toward his destiny . . . a silver pearl,
he hides himself in the shadow of the round belly
                                                        of his world . . and
                    turning blood red . .  he blushes at his folly . . .
soon drifting away . . .
                            yet now
                                      my moon is sailing behind a bank of fog . . .
               a tenuous thing and yet like a veil
                             or a misty shroud . .  these clouds will deny the eyes
          the knowledge of vision . . . and the thing that
                        is not seen . .  ceases to exist . ..

                              an ivory figurine
                   motionless . . . forgotten . ..
    sits in a dusty corner
                           like an old tooth
                                         she fades away
              in shades of yellow;
                              lost in her slumber
           she dreams down slender roads
                            the dust of long lost hopes
   flying up from beneath her moving feet . .
                  her amber colored flesh peels away
          like wings . . .
                         like the pages of a book
                    like the leaves of an autumn tree ..
                      lifting . .  fluttering
                             anticipating a breeze
                 the bare bones of memories . . .
                                         driving ever upward . . . 

          There are whispers in the wind
                        the moon is sighing . . .
                                       his light drips thickly
                                                  like silver tears
                                                          from the leaves of the ivy . . .
                      their tendrils burrow down into the
         heart of the tall black pine .  .  .  shadows dark. . .
                                  invisible points concealed beneath the roots . . .
                resins scenting the air . . . with the wispiness of smoke . . .
                                     something is
                      hidden deeply
      longing to be free . .
                    beating like a heart throbbing . . .
                                    like bloody hands scrabbling. . .
                   like fingernails clawing. . .

somewhere is heard a distant melody . . .
                a window slowly opens and
a thousand birds fly free . . .
         wings exhausted,
                            feathers filling slowly
with silky winds . . .
         parachutes ripe with the fullness of  desire

there is the sky
there is the endless sky
and in the center . . .
an eternity . . .