Yours the thoughts, never bringing words to mind. 

You speak without words,

give solace without promise

and I miss no one.

Storm

A storm is coming;

let it come,

legends rise 

from dark clouds 

of a blackened sky. 

I have closed my eyes

and your hands cover my ears,

to all this hatred. 

Blue

Distance of 

several hundred paces;

each hundred paces 

as many miles,

and still I did not 

escape You. 

‘The lines that I do not write, numb my soul with abysmal fear.’ 

Putting in the miles,

journeying there and now here.

Driving away sleep. 

Fear or 

no longer afraid, 

silent winds 

will blow 

a chill 

to the bone. 
March steadily 

through the

earthly dimness, 

knowing you are 

not alone. 
The spirit 

not reliant 

on vision, 

seeks no destination 

in descending mist 

not shy of gloom. 
Scent the air 

with your stillness, 

sat waiting 

in a magnolia room.

Fingers stir a storm,

tracing over carvings blue.

Finding all but you. 

Head turning away 

into the brooding silence,

a low tune he hummed.