Sunday, August 21, 2011



The mischief of fate
the mundanity of loneliness
coalesce, auspiciously
a torrent of passionate whitewater
sweeping away everything free

Two weathered fronts
in a clumsy dance
coalesce, inexplicably
at times a beautiful storm
on occasion without mercy

The voice of guilt
the silence of remorse
coalesce, helplessly
a cowardly echo remains
in need of rescue and empathy

The summer ocean
the autumn sky
coalesce, where we can no longer see
would time and distance be vanquished?
for yonder is where we should be

© 2011 Vulture