eschatology: a poem



(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)


I am the rain that falls,

I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.

I am the silence
That befalls all sound.





I can think of no better metaphor

Than the glorifying sun

Yielding to the inkwell of the night

At the end of everything;

Time – such a cruel mistress –

Finally running out,

The sand in the hourglass

Surrendering the last of itself

At the journey’s end;

And, at long last, it was over.

The Boulevard


I’d walk for miles just to get back there,

Back to the fullness of my youth,

Back to the sweetness of summer,

The petrol fumes pungent in the August air,

Cherry ice cream on my lips,

The Boulevard,

Where I went to watch life,

As it happened without me,

While I stood on the median

In the midst of the swirling gas stains on the asphalt

And the blaring of horns,

And me,
Watching, waiting, silent, still,

Seeing the Boulevard not as she was,

But as she wanted to be –

A dusty road that led only unto itself,

Upon which the sun was always setting.


Still Life



Modeled from Jane Hirshfield’s ‘Pebbles,’ from her collection The Beauty. I adore her work and mean no infringement through my emulation of her poem.

The disloyalty of Lucifer,

The Fall of Man,

And Paradise Lost;

All in the same still-life of a half-eaten fruit.


Like that,

I remember you.

A Letter to Myself



It’s one of those nights.


One where the stars are too still in their orbits,

And I can imagine the scent of your perfume

Lazily wafting its way around the room,

And a love song – French, because those are the kind you liked best –

Is lingering in the air,

A mere whisper

Competing with the sounds of the rain

Tapping its melody upon the windowpane,

And the train hurtling through space and time,

Carrying me far from where I was,

Yet bringing me no closer to where I meant to be,

And the fruits of my youth lay wasted at my feet,

And a kind of melancholy that only visits me when I think of you

 Like a cloak I put upon shoulders so that I can wear your sorrows,

If only so you can dream a dream of peace, tonight,

Has taken hold,

And I burn and yearn to make right my wrongs,

To make my peace with my Gods,

And I sit here, staring into your soul,

So revealed in the brights of the eyes I see reflected back at me,

And I pray for both of our salvations,

And I blink and you are gone;

One of those nights

When I wish I could take wing

And travel back through time to be where you are.



It’s one of those nights.

Upon the Ledger of Stolen Moments



Wearing her perfume

Is like donning Freya’s falcon coat –

A sacred ritual,

A thing not in the realm of mortal men,

An act of not-quite blasphemy

Akin to turning back the hourglass of life

One fraction of an instant –

Yet, I count the cost.


Pale Death doubtless keeps a tally

Of moments such as these,

Marking with his heavy quill

Each second I borrow from him,

For surely these stolen moments

Of desiderium for a dream long lost,

Of a kind of twilight haze that settles over one

Only in the aftermath,

When all that is left of her is silence,

Surely, for this, and more, I count the cost.


For these moments, surely

I sacrifice myself to myself,

Hanging upon the world tree impaled by my own blade,

Surely, a debt accrued must one day be paid,


For every moment of tender joy and ardent longing

I hoard in the bitter month of October,

Surely, I pay, one day in the middle

Of an otherwise blissful May.

Sorrowfully, I Saw You



I saw you on the train the other day,

Crying out under the burden

Of someone else’s sorrows,

Or at least I imagined that it was you,

And that you were crying,

And that the sorrows were not your own.


I saw you down the hall as well,

Standing in perfect stillness,

Knees bent under the weight

Of our caprice,

Head bowed as if in prayer,

Or at least I pretended it was you,

And maybe even said a prayer of my own

To the Old Gods we used to howl to,

When the moon was full of joy,

And so were we.