Sonnet

Beyond the brink of failure’s shattered light

Awaits a paradox, a void of peace

Where hopes to see your ego’s worth increase

Bow out with grace, and lightly reek of spite.

A symphony can hardly carry on

As the esteemed conductor writhes in pain

And exultation for the notes contained

In songs he’ll never learn, his chance forgone.

Without a broken stanza to repair

Time flows forever floating just above.

Its silver eyes to peel life with its stare

And find us rotten to the core with love.

The bottom of it all can offer rest

If you suppose that you’re the honored guest.

Devil in the details

An epiphany, epitome of poetry, showing me
that life laughs when you think you've got a hold and see
the white flash that melts to moving gold from headlights
through the window by your childhood bed, nights
when whatever then was said now floating in the ether,
either loading on some cosmic cloud or caught between the teeth
of a monster starving for emotion, slowly carving out an ocean
in the sewers of forgotten dreams and neverminded notions.  I'm hoping
to lean back and listen one of these days, in ways
you might be missing if you're too involved with pissing
away your thought patterns, all tattered and torn
by the devil in the details, screaming as he flails and drowns
out the sound of perspicacious laughter life breathes into your sails.