Poetry
In my dreams the wife slayers
Feast on my flesh
And hell is the only exit
In a moment of perfection
I am able to slay them
With misquotes from history
Now I understand
Yet to come
Is the best of all possible worlds.
The softness of a new baby's skin
gently dipped in warmed water
like the light begging at the end
of the tunnel
she cried
but she cried for joy
for inside there is no pain
inside there is only the joy
of a wake
of jassing until the wail of the dawn
Now comfort enough.
Small, gentle breaths
Gentle eyes
Embarrassed by years
And shadows of undone deeds
Feeling much pain
And even more joy
Small, gentle gestures
Only that blood can share
With restrained excitement
Under the rough and torn
Caring
Small, gentle eyes
Gentle breaths
Gone.