Reliquary

or when all is over, done,

while snow beams fall in light,

for curtains hide thy dying sun.

Shore of ancient battles won,

vile deeds stain honor at the sight,

or when all is over, done.

Floor slick with snow save one

tile, mopped clean and bright.

Four curtains hide thy dying sun.

Your irises once kind now shun.

I'll vanish in the dark of night,

or when all is over, done.

Swore on the pact, the gun;

Smile through the screaming blight,

for curtains hide thy dying sun.

Nor will my feet begin to run,

guile tossed away, and slight.

Or when all is over, done

for. Curtains.  Hide thy dying son.

Dawn

Such a doomed romance is there

between Sir Beard the coarse and old

and Lady Coffee, young and fair,

that steams quite hot 'till love runs cold.

He catches but a drop or two

as cosmic forces bring them near

and pass her gleaming, bitter dew

between her cup and lips she'll sear.

Yet faster she will out of sight

be drawn as cooling passion dies

and sad Sir Beard a vestige keep

between his bristles nestled deep

until night washes clean his prize

and yearns he for the morning light.

A Burning

Improve what man

with careless mind

has broken here

in one mistake.

Consuming fire

that eats what we,

in folly tried

to fashion "God".

Behind is just

a charred remain;

its creaking moan

intermittent.

Spreading across

the blackened wood,

biotic blades

of green return.