The Poet’s Desk

Fragrant setting, this dewy dusk,
wherein the shadow hides the lust
of mournful followers, pitied and damned,
whispering repentance ‘tween souls therein crammed,
yet reproaching, gentle and kind…

Life, threaded time,
by which the notes of strength do climb
to peak the mix of clatter droned,
there perched upon one tone, enthroned,
so beheld as something fine…

In ether ribbon’d twixt and round
the fabric of our souls, be found
in wafting death or life, such furls
setting waves to change, or fate there curled
in snaps of cracking wind and whip.
Tether bending, so in dips
a curve by which our souls find truth,
yet only glancing proof.
Still therein, our haunts denied…

What is this space, from desk to chair,
brimmed with dancing smoke and stare?
What silence drawn, this ragged space
where man spills out in dreams displaced?
Musky corner in burgundy touts
rich mental prisoners, objects, that route
the mind away…

Here good purpose resides
in what imagination hides
and chooses to bring forth –
stories new, yet told before,
of love, and war,
and kisses stolen,
innocence, laughs and jests once spoken…
eddy currents in ether and shadow,
fertile fragrance, one note stretched hollow
befriends the quiet’s patience in turn,
so to this space, this memory burned…

…herein, my life resides…