of time and days

what remains of this day, this pale dream,
that leaves and flies off forgotten, feathering
a new dawn with fresh songs, an improvised cadence
marching toward the horizontal plane of existence
stretched forward anticipating an eternal arrival?

the wind left its shadow imprinted upon leaves
broken from life, impregnating the ground with
the axis of seasonal upheaval grieving for dreams
echoing in hollow slumber, the infant moment
advancing toward the penumbra of infinite mornings.

we are left standing naked, with rain,
with mournful water-falling skies, we are left
savoring the flavor of mouthfuls of promised blood,
letting the rituals of remembrance remind us
of possibilities imbued with hues of blue dreams.

this day passes by our eyes like a silent procession,
a moving funeral of moments adjacent the sea,
beside a liquid cemetery of nascent passion
flowing in pursuit of an exact plenitude of fruit,
the winter garden drenched in minute waves of time.

there is a circular fire tending the compass of salt's companions:
water and iron, blood and skin, navigated passages of
cyclic rhythms embedded in rags, smeared upon lips
and offered to sacrificial gardens, the precision of the moon
offsets sun-dialed passions for shadows.

within each moment an ember smolders, resembled flames
emblazoned with ash grown colder through time's passage,
and the watch-keeper sleeps round the clock,
tick-tocking with head rocking to and fro as fires grow
to consume the day until its extinction by night's promised destiny.

what is remained of this day, pale dream departed,
forgotten amidst the memories of cold ash and
burnt cedar, cast away with the fading dream of forever,
where did i misplace that dream, that day,
that warm river of blood calling out to the sea?

where is its return written upon the waves that
never die, the day that never gives up
in repetition of its dawn, its forlorn fire, its frequent mission to hunt me
down amongst the silver forests and bloody,
hidden roots where i find the secret of spring?

we find ourselves killing time, but time won't die,
we idly drown the passing moments in furtive sips,
filling full autumn's tannic wine with blood
from the sun, grasping upon vines, tangled and torrid
thickets of time pressed like grapes between inescapable lips.

time hangs like a black curtain draped over space,
the sea holds all the secrets of the sun,
the hidden forest conceals the answers to the moon,
and the wind carries dragons circling rainy verses,
only i am left with stones who sing, shaking my bones buried.

i am witness to this coursing river of blood,
silently i am experienced by the rushing waters
flowing downstream from burdened skies clouded by falling voices,
i remain as a bled offering upon this land afloat
fleshing out the skeleton of purposeful, intentional sacrifice.

there remain certain shadows, precise reverberations
of infinite possibilities, phantom hands stretched forward,
paths left unwalked; there are words whose lips
have not tasted their passing form, words whose language
remains languid upon tongues lying fallow awaiting fertile speech.

what happens to those dreams, those words digested by fear
and encumbered with burden? what cemetery, what
mystery of forest and mountain shrouds their presence
in the present moment that does not know the song
of your throat or the petals you palm when sharing your scent with me?

this day, like the other one, like all of them, it passes,
has passed into this horizontal night of incisive rain
bled by the ancient wind circumventing mental mazes,
stirring within my breast, blanketing me with cold and numbness,
and tomorrow is embedded beneath sheets of salt, tearing these dreams.