Soundless, Unspoken

Call it a whisper
Yet give it no name
Speak of it not
Or go recalling its pain
Ashes can not be born
Unto any such castles
Of which anyone is aware
And silence, It baffles

Fire surely follows flame
In all worlds known to be
Just as pleasure sought from pain
Promises hellfire and misery
Wading into those depths
Lends to drowning in salt tears
A dance that's grown stale
Shoes worn thin in passing years

Casting lots with shadows
When hope becomes unclear
Akin to jumping off of cliffs
When death becomes so near
Questioning the path by means
Of an unfailing and unseen eye
Counts all costs of reasoning
More sound than plan or guise

Slippery slopes promote travel
Even when falling seems safer
Lest left holding an invisible rope
Quelled to facing form in mirrors
Kettles run dry, tire of indecision
Find their own teacups, they must
Ending such bid for following dances
Showering histories with certain rust

At the Opera With No Coat

Seven and ten naming days of the clock rung,
Not in the cross hairs, Well early at forever young
Passions and innocence blend, Songs are sung
Amidst many miles, Many seas, The tide upon
Phone calls are made, Little hearts are drawn
Pieces of paper age, Time's only number is one

And if he knew now,  All of the future's woes
What which ways, How long the wind blows
Would reality be different, alternate or slow
Because shoes walk a boy, Before stands a man
Catastrophes and fortunes, A curveball of plans
Time touched his face, His eyes, A dream outran

Deep beneath the rust, A torn and fading box
The first promises of a man, An unlikely paradox
The contents speak, Words, They became clocks
To voice them anyway, To mark them  true
Because time was different, Lovely and new
Because a girl changes history, Surely they do

Even after four and ten seasons, A drift out to sea
Long after the last phone call, An ending of glee
Just a picture or some words, The past becomes free
Through a long driven wind, do travelers chase dreams
Through perhaps a future clouded, new ones will teem
The memories of a child, Unlocked prayers of James Dean

She said you came back, Though the clock strikes late
I promised I would, Sorry about the unending wait
Perhaps Peter Pan and Wendy, Suppose another's fate
Though reality never meant much, Time, It stood still
Long enough to look out ahead, Drive forward or reel
Staring at the open road, An opportunity left to feel

Of All Things

Of all the things I know,
Surely I must not understand this
Thing of trampled madness
The one that beats beneath my skin
Not far below protection
My mask against the world

Of all the things I've seen,
Surely I have not gazed its depth
Or how it glows, when it glistens
To stake my claim or place
I would need a guide, some direction
Understanding I have seldom felt

Of all things left,
Surely will come unearthed
A rightly marching parade
When my secret neither tires nor rests
And then I'll know I've found it
To glimpse upon what I've waited
For all the ends of Earth to see

Of all things not spoken,
This I must speak the least
For surely wrong hands lay all about
Them I've known all my passing days
But about this I'm not mistaken
That I must accord my all again

Passing Lines

Lines on the paper, Lines on the wall
Who is that drawing, Who's come to call
Some things that go unseen, but seldom fade
Like words from a time ago, brought back to wade
The ocean's calling, Its blur is dull and  not sharp
But lines make circles, and fingers pull on harps
Crickets sing their songs, but the phrases go unsaid
As whispers upon the wind, some chords are not dead
Though lines seek their sought, no heart dies unheard
That is the great mystery, The ink behind each word
Telling what one knows, one line feeds another
Some roads start again, The end is still much further