in finite

in finite

first you feel it

something anything

and are lost in it

to it

then you feel

that you are back here

considering

the feel of feeling it

and then you know

there in that moment

you had tasted infinity

and found it good

the night dies in the mourning skies

the night dies in the mourning skies

the night, enchanted by the music, stays

long after the dawn of worries

has yawned back the smarting tears,

the stars snow flurries

jiggle, lamplit, as a beacon for all

who are lost, cold, out there as well,

while we dwell, in all innocence, 

on the death of hope to ever tell

of better dawns,

of dreams come true. so

sleep tight my child, 

it’s alright,

I will care for you;

as the day that mourns

the coming of the night,

will sing aloud of

a thousand feathered dawns. 

write you are then

write you are then

the writer reads the writing 

when the reading is all

most before the act 

of writing

and that’s

a pact 

between

the writing 

and 

the written

writing

and that’s 

another fact

The books have arrived from Amazon

the builder boys

the builder boys

cement and fag smoke

  dig in

dungarees and hobnails

wood shavings and spit dust

  dig in

the music played a loud

rescued memory of last night

sustaining you until tonight

  again

seeing you through the day

through the no roof rain 

the long cold haul

 again and again

until the serotonin of the pub

talk thaws on gritted teeth

and the jowl of the bar

  see

how it cheers the day away

back fills the question

why boys oh why

what is it you

  see

ahead in life’s hard

slog and long

do you see anything ahead

and if so what is it you see

is it   is it  oh no

oh god   oh no   it’s 

dig ing

again and again

is that what you 

wanted 

to see

too bloody write

too bloody write 

burrowed mosaic of scabied words 

and crawling

under the skin of thought,

itching to be scratched and bled

into a crucible of verse, that

aught not be the dark blood’s regret

and maudling 

clasped in hands of absolution;

but, rapier sharp in fires of ice,

pinion the feral butterfly of thought, and

anointed in the font of the soul’s i do

proclaim it thus, and over such words

in perusing,

you will be the judge of that.

fate

fate

fate, where are you taking me?

am i silvering a mountain sky?

or darkening a valley pass?

and why this road? 
is it
going up? or down? and

how much further?

and have i arrived?

is this it?
i am? am i?
in your hands now?