Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Architect of dreams, hands stained with clay, plant another flower, pack down the dust with your tears worry not, when the bracken springs forth beneath storm clouds, the raindrops will keep your confidence, the thunder will ply its melodies, they too, indelible as sorrow, are your inheritance

Translucent parts of the self-contained heart, once denied, cast their chorus into the silence, capricious as desire, cacophonous as the omnipresent spark of creation that deafens reason brother, your ambition worn thin, made brittle as my prismatic lens, cleave your prayers before the tattered chords of madmen, carve yourself a sliver on the wall, bury…

Lonely minded architect of the silver spire, sat silently, alone at the table, dressed sharply in black and grey, your fingers stained with ink, made thin by the wasting sickness when October arrives outside the window and you wither further alongside Autumn, will you fall spent like the leaves, or have you yet the spirit…

My love, strip the viridian edges of my canvas, pull forth the black with your brush, soothe my heart with grey, when we fall together upon the hillside overlooking the city of trees and I cast my line into the wellspring of unease that bubbles forth every night at dusk, rend me with your fingertips,…

The weight of the day settles, like a marionette without strings; half mad, word-blind, its eyes cast to the river should it fall upon us, feet set along my circular path, even your sharp edges would be insufficient to free those fractious thoughts, that, if withheld their page, prelude oblivion 

Cloud-weaver, Queen of midnight, Composer to the music of my heart, violet are the shadows that adorn your paintbrush, soft as the sun setting upon the gravel walkway where we once stood still, your lips tasting of summers final moments

Three months and a day, catch the hourglass in your fingertips, spin forward the minute hand, for when we must sift each precious moment through a curtain of misery, who is to say what next will come tumbling, unexpected, into being

Sat around the circular table, tomorrow set aside, your cheeks flush in laughter, a smile like your namesake in bloom sweeps the cobwebs from my mind when even the poets pen becomes rooted in its grooves, and the exile, beset like Babel shirks his load, the willow yet sheds its leaves and the river carries…

Five to five you inquire about the nature of the ocean indwelling the soul, the sea of half-thoughts, transfixed in motion, swept aside by solitude, cast away in grief, stolen like a silent soliloquy at midnight, caught as before In my windpipe