Adagio
.
So, what is it you see,
should you look?
A poet,
in scattered, tattered glory,
writing long past despair,
burning words,hoping flicker of
poor lexicon’s heat warms
just enough
to unfog mirror?
.
Have you ever bothered
really heard
adagio’s aching rhythm
carefully penned
by life-blistered fingers or
merely ignored ghostly smile
mysteriously imprinted
metrically on your heart…
Have you any thoughtfor his madness?
.
Torn, blood-ink nails
Clinging to onionskin dreams…
fearing unreal, reflected,shadow existence,
where all’s
approaching zero:
Staring at empty, white space,
a breathing event horizon,
much more solid
than shattered existence.