Corridors run the length of this place,
Painted regretful;
Doors hide the memories.

Time will pass and lift you from grace
If you just believe.
It’s still so easy to grieve.

Mountains are greater than this place you love.
Fall back to Earth:
The saddest place for a dove.

Your old man had dreams he lost in disgrace
To a fiery sea.
This land and me.

I’m without fear after what was said.
The gun’s gripped, ungainly.
You’ve made this great bed a thousand times.


Rites of Yours

I woke and dreamed of you,
Gleaned the truth
From what I knew,
Smelling sweat, a knowing sense
The taste calling
A better hue.

Still, I travelled far too far
Into a sunset,
Out of a dawn,
One by one the people left me
Drunk on gin,
Bruised unborn.

Black as night;
Rich and dark.
Just show me
These rites of yours.

The motion faded,
The haze rose up;
Faith in sorrow
A numb refrain.

You were looking all night for me:
I’m not that person,
Not even sane.


The Bell Tower Boy

With calloused engagement, chime in if you dare.
There’s a rotting black pony and we’ll share the main course.
Encouraging barks to jump, to swim, to be free of their wailing;
The Alternative Hymn:

“Bar the doors.
Light the fires.
Torch the literature.”

“Run for the hills,
my sweet darling!
Take wing and elate.”

A paper dream of queens and kings losing heart, shovelled deep.
This shuffling fool, bludgeoning faith where bastards refrain from this stewardship’s keep.

Deafening, shrill,
these towers wail with wonder.
Below we baffle for meaning
in staccato clusters of thunder.