No mortals these that of earthly treasures want
but supplicants all through poverty and fellowship,
humbly begun long before greed dared them recant;
All those who would seek that place of common worship
they rode their lives to spend, prepared to protect
that holy place so all men could witness angels weep;
Still stand they for that duty most perfect,
demanding succour to all fellows they beseech.
Upon this skin etched deep in black ink is her name
between seals of courage and which carries no blame,
my love of her, now commanded silent, forever proclaims.


All I needed was the love you gave
in this season that together we made,
each time I think I hear your sweet name
I recall that fond joyous laughter you braved,
this story of our time too rushed and too sweet
slams shut what once was opened with a kiss,
cold now as steel without your heat
my Viola,
this Will,
evermore shall miss.


Is it only a week?
This ache feels longer and more keen
Than all the wailing pain in Troy seen
When finally it fell to Agamemnon’s greed
As the great age of legend passed.

Is it only a week?
I looked for you this night in despair
With hope unheeded you might appear
To speak as I once did against fear
To hold me as I once did you dear.

Only a week.
I fear what words the dawn might bring
What earthly doom the ether might ring
I lay within Orpheus’ grasp at last
And pray a net without you he might cast.




These still frames I put on my minds shelf
wondering when the pain will heal itself;
This ink I carry on my arm evermore
not the only mark as you close the door;
This lesson I seem in time to be learning,
of my haste that’s been our undoing,
still aflame burning bright and searing,
throws my reflection to grey brooding;
That peace you brought has remained,
a happiness that lays unchanged,
above the struggle surrendered,
surrounds the heart now sundered.


Wrecked broken upon grief’s reef tearing,
shattered hollow now spinning, now tipping;
Empty depths pull clinging then swilling,
no more hope of salvation, of escaping;
No doubt between those words of this ending,
whose despair I spied not in that beginning;
Soft music of night grows little and fading,
as sorrow’d rain drops cover my tears falling;
If memories were worth of time,
worthy they were this while.