The Wading King

We slipped through transient terrain
across the ethereal and the arcane,
leaving beneath us white waking trail
and floating on the sway of cattails.
A kingfisher met us upon the harbor
with foundations laid of fall arbor
of the Venetician lagoon fertile,
stretching from Brenta to the Sile.
We paced ourselves through the dunes
descending further into the lagoon,
stopping only upon arrival of a heron,
wading king, a brackish marsh baron.
The acqua alta was soon on the rise
as twilight hours birthed glowflies,
between Chioggia and the Torcello
we sank with eelgrass and Othello.

People Never Change

Weary of all these bottomless days
we replete away into the nights
in our glutted drink and our haze
longing for sights and better days.

We press into the twilight hour
sinking deeper in a selfish rut
letting our inner sloth devour
to stumble and strut in the hour.

Draining open bottles and lit ends
to shake away the day's routine
we slink in lasting, decaying amend
embedded in genes here until the end.

Weary of all these bottomless days
we replete away into the nights
in our glutted drink and our haze
longing for sights and better days.

Love long since faded, habit remains,
and dreams die to the daily grind
where nothing is finished or attained
and only rind and procedure remain.

Tomorrow will only ever be the same,
hope only fades away into the mange,
but in the end, so does the pain,
no one changes, we are all the same.

Weary of all these bottomless days
we replete away into the nights
in our glutted drink and our haze
longing for sights and better days.

The Reason

On the day
that I realize
I can no longer
up and leave
with no goodbye
no parting words
no final say
because
I am held here
attached to something
restrained to this town
is the day
that I no longer
have a reason
to stay.

Dóm

We pour sand into wine glasses and engulf your throat in fire
to make reflective mirrors for etchings of our lost words,
to bring about our law, our judgment, our hour,
to set into motion all that should have been in your stead.
We break falsehoods and untrue claims by sham prophets
and stand sure in conviction and the redemption
as we smash through the muddled mass who smile and grin
to their final, gasping breaths of life on this world.
We beat the wretch, condemn the whore, batter the betrayer,
and laugh our final laugh when they are left wondering why,
despite their arrogance, in defiance of their apathy,
and undeterred by the weight of their crowns of sand.
We pour sand into wine glasses and toast to the Great End
to make looking glasses for a fleeting image of vanity
and everything absolute that you took for granted
or ignored in spite of every single whisper I spoke to you.
This is your day of everlasting judgment. This is your doom.

in a waking life.

in a waking life
you see the sun set and
you rise in the early hours
to hapless moments
measured only in clock-ins
and coffee breaks and
empty smiles from co-workers
with four kids,
lemon cars,
and two mortgages,
and cats that eat table scraps, and
none of them know why they persist.

in a solemn vow
to climb up and make
your way out of here
you instinctively make a house
and home and root yourself with iron
chains to this town.

you work your way to the top,
reminiscence about the good ol' days,
take out student loans,
date a few pretty girls,
and hunker down to a homely place
and buy yourself a nice, little house
in the good side of town
where you can have a few years
of marriage, and then maybe
some children of your own
that will go to your childhood school,
become a part of the PTA
and bitch about taxes,
and what they're teaching your kids,
and who's running for president,
and why your boss won't give you a raise,
and what your ex got in the divorce.

and in a waking life
you see your son set in
motion everything you never
wanted for yourself
but couldn't ever prevent.