Twelve months, each a swollen memory

compressed into the sawdust of one day.

The breeze was a waving flag;

its hand signaled a solemn farewell.

A ghostly echo will travel this way.

Every twelve months will it pass by

makng rounds as a sober sentry.

The automatic opener of the mind's eye

will glimpse into memory's past

when for one sweet and precious moment

the ethereal and this realm converge.



At Times I Question

At times I question

the logic of my sanity

or the sanity of my logic.

Either way I'm left bewildered

lost in the immersion of myself.

My own mind is a monkey

in a tree caught somewhere between

human and beast, not quite

one nor the other yet trying

to discern the difference

between the two. They must

be few if there are any at all.

A sweet silence is the salvation

I try to wrap around me like

a safe, warm blanket but

someone keeps pulling the covers off

leaving me exposed and vulnerable

to the noise, the mess, the overwhelming

stench of existence that filters through

hurting my ears, polluting my surroundings

and there is no cave I can descend into

where privacy is not imposed upon.

It could all be so simple

but the push against the door of

my mind until at times

I have to question.