Mother

A sea of Grief
from prolific tears,
I cannot lay you to rest—
It has become
too dark and deep
you’re now too far
beyond my reach.
Memory strains
to keep your face
in its desperate grasp
until that sea
covers my head
and I’m drowned with you
at last.

Xenophobe

I do not mean
to frighten the crow.
And am I not
as black as he?
Cloaked in grounded, woolen night
not unlike his obsidian wing,
I stand very still—
not to breathe
nor to make any sound
that would stir him into flight.

Alms

How can I fear you, Death, if
you're just a thing that hungers?

Some threat indeed, you
wretched force of poverty!
How can I fault you for being desirous
when I want things too?

Poor Death; I can only pity a creature
who scavenges for discarded scraps of light,
and dread becomes compassion for one
who must anguish for every single breath.

I can never know your awful craving--
your hands of ash cupped to receive,

but for you, sweet Death,
I'd pluck out my heart--
still beating in its crimson bloom
in exchange for all your riches.

Published at Wordlust : Paperfetish November 18, 2005