Death

damp and feverish-
a restful sleep eludes me
on this bed of coals
–
noonday sun-
ice in my glass
long turned to water

my old tired soul
steeped in warm flowing water
washing me away
–
frozen windows-
winter winds blow
through my soul

a pile of old clothes-
years of living on the street
etched deep in her face
–
dirty snow-
sleep arrives on
a cardboard box

the fire laid on while
winter in all its fury
rages at my door
–
grey skies-
cruel winter winds
howl at the moon

far icy mountains
bathed in shades of white and blue
float on arctic seas
–
broken ice-
polar bears
search for respite

with a poisoned pen
I write stories in the blood
of the innocent
–
desert sagebrush-
rattlesnakes hidden
in plain sight

at the old stone well
I peer into the darkness
looking back at me
–
moss covered stone-
I dip my bowl into
the well of souls

the clouds and your eyes-
my head in your lap amid
a field of daisies
–
a dry vase-
tired blooms
bow their heads

dark grey winter clouds
heavily laden with snow
loom over this town
–
winter sunrise-
shallow paw prints
in the snow

friends and enemies
all are but dust as I wait
for mortality
–
a dark attic-
old records
gathering dust