Ashes drift across the page,
smudged in ink that lies in rage
left loosened by these blotted stains,
so holds the moment thick.
I sit with silenced, emptied mind
denying few the words I find,
yet nothing blunts the pain
that bends these lays in pages sick.
There is no hope in honesty,
when to the last, emotions fail.
There is but lucid clarity,
that paints the final moments pale.
Flesh deprives the man behind.
Sickness ebbs the soul in kind,
but still the eagled spirit shines,
so baits us to the end.
Moments pass as prayers drift
until the spirits seeking, lift
his deity’s smoky lines,
that in our presence mend.
All life is left in moments played
between the poles of death and birth,
yet left perplexed in passing’s sum
we stand here heavy on this earth…
Waiting our return.