Oakley Hall

A beauty once felt and

shared

began to storm and

its eyes shut

to all but the

mirror mirror

in the bottom of

one and one-half ounces of 

distilled, 

smoked oak with

an amber haze.

Once genius-

falling fast

falling faster

questioning resolve,

questioning relevance,

questioning mortality.

Splitting, then

split.

Unseen were the villains-

once at the dark corners of

creativity; 

haunting in every blink,

waiting behind bloody eyelids -

now they dance in the dripping rays

of over-saturated days.

Death of a force

unlike nature.

A waste.

The tempest worsens and

the eye eclipses the tornado;

the calm

traps-

ensnaring

the wind

the rain

and the lightening within 

a grey prison.

By and by,

the world grows tired and 

deaf to the false promise

of windfall,

then 

by ordinary means

by no great struggle other than

the simple will to live-

to find relevance once more,

the mirror broke

and the beauty now rages stronger,

breeding hope.

It will outlast-

It will endure.

It will share itself with the world

again.

Walk-In

Some things don't stay in your closet-

hitching rides on old baseball caps

and long, moth eaten winter coats.

Those bones were thought to have turned to dust

long ago

swept away by broom or

that they had floated away,

through old walls, down dark stairways

and into a fiery furnace

deep

deep

below.

In truth, many do;

disappearing into the sea of time,

taken away grain by grain

with each mornings tide

however,

most remains,

the ones most foul and

most telling-

the ones shoved furthest away:

creep about in the shadows

waiting silently

and steadily;

breathlessly

and hungrily,

watching-

So when you sit at the head of the family table

you won't wonder why everyone is staring;

you'll feel the skeleton fingers running though your hair-

for no closet is deep enough.

The Danse Macabre

Pulling hair

knees together, shivering
under a worn, victorian desk.

His progress,
his life in words, written with ink and blood-
fluttering about the room, parchment choking the air
like so much confetti.
Thousands of pages, millions of thoughts
skimming through the dark room
glimmering in the light of the fireplace.

It's all decoration for the Danse Macabre.

So easy it was, to be inspired by
demons and death, waiting in the night
and now they are here;

slithering and gliding,

called in from the cold reaches of elsewhere
dancing in great circles-

a grand ballroom full of shadows
and stolen words.

They will dance about him now;
close by,
for the rest of his days.

He no longer shudders-
but smiles a great, terrifying smile-

he leaps to his feet,

flames and shadows dance in his eyes.

the dance would be had,

then-

more parchment soaked

with ink

and death.

inspired by Neil Gaiman and his own 'recollection' of the 'danse'.