The Dew

morning_dew

 

The dew that dazzled me this morning

Is gone,

So I was wondering if

Maybe

You’d want to go back,

With me,

To when it was still shining,

Radiant,

A tiny drop of the ocean

Clinging

To this terrestrial world,

Fast fading,

Yet glinting and glimmering in the sun

As if

It had nowhere else in particular to be.

 

The Art of Loneliness

It was Sunday, the day of madness, and I alone knew that.
Awakened in the midnight hours by another magnificent work
By the artist himself;

I’d spent the evening studying another of his masterpieces,
And I suppose that the indelible ochre ink he preferred
Stained my dreams;

I carried his ink and quill with me as I lay me down to sleep,
And, with great care, placed them on the night table
Nearest the door;

I laid down on his canvas, and covered myself in his melodies,
As the clock rang to announce the coming of midnight
And the silence grew louder still;

It had been Saturday, a day of merriment, a day of rejoicing,
But Saturday was no more, and the artist was indeed inspired
By its absence;

And in the darkness, he handed me a light – a painting,
A self portrait carved into a shard of the mirror I’d broken earlier,
Entitled – The Art of Loneliness.