What secrets…

What secrets linger, hovering
over the silver mirror lake?
What secrets drown in ripples
when leafless boughs
bow towards the underwater sky?
What secrets echo
beneath the mirror, and gaze up
as stillness waits, still?
What secrets bring storms
when forever lake trembles
and thunder drowns forever skies?

T. E. Pyrus

embers and silence..,

She skips stones o’er shallow darkness
that ripples ’round her bare ankles.
twilights trace her lorn shoulders and soul,
pale wristlets of sunset that grace her wrists
burn bright, searing like heartbreak,
yet smoulder forever like untiring love;
her eyes, grey like shadow, twinkle with wry mirth
o’er shallow darkness, like faery knights
of new moon, vows of pure sunlight
every dawn; her hair, dear as midnight,
curtains wistful smiles: gentle curve of her frayed lips,
gentle hope that never fully breaks with falling time;
her laughter wakes the melancholic night;
o’re shallow darkness, wishing stars shine bright..,

T. E. Pyrus

trace

when lightning cracks across the skies
like cold and broken window glass,
who peeks through curtains of white rain?
who listens for spare hopes and sighs?

when hues of red stir empty skies
and bright stars draw the curtains wide,
who watches through cold, empty glass?
who listens for spare hopes and sighs?

when twilight charms wide starry skies
and fireplace glows safe and bright,
who loves the rabbit on the moon?
who sings clear haunting lullabies?

T. E. Pyrus

only rest,

I wrote this in response to a challenge: Write about what it’s like to live with a mental illness.

is that the music of time,
like the sound of rain
when tired drops that survived the storm
drip placidly from distant treetops,
through hollow darkness that shut-eyes and nighttime bring?
the absurdly enticing stars
fall out of the decorated sky
and shatter like twinkling ice,
like flakes of glass that yearn the stinging blood.
the soil beneath breathes and lives,
the wilting grass that roughly braids your hair
is damp, and slightly warm,
like the empty spaces in memory
where joy and laughter are faded dreams.
drip-drop, tick-tock, suns rise and moons set,
the air embraces the ground here,
don’t try to move your fingertips,
don’t raise your hopes,
don’t close your eyes,
don’t listen as the seconds fall, then melt away,
as if they steal your love and wonder and life,
feel your fingers claw into the soothing wind,
only rest and sink into the loving earth.

T. E. Pyrus

Time won’t tell…

(a sonnet)
Neath the blue and perfect morning skies
hidden under ash, a copper key
stained in green and grey like restless sea
glinting bold and silently there lies;
and craves the company of merry cries
that filled the cellars, once, with laughter free,
and frosted pitchers’ pleasant company;
and wisdom, rare, some brittle pride, unwise.
Now, time has lost it’s glamorous deceit.
The ever-charming, charcoal polished door
and dusty chairs still lean against the floor
like ghostly hopes that still renounce defeat.
Thunderclouds all rage and storm in vain;
the ashes here burn brighter in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus

last pennies

rippling pebbles beneath the fountain
fine sculpted of stone and grey,
blessed with a velvet green cloak of old honour,
hail the knight who stands tall today

on velvet stone horse, copper blue eyes,
rusty blue sword and blue skies.
my fountain sings a song of sorrow
of wishes unwhispered and sighs.

my fountain, wish me a world of white
paper cranes that melt quiet into snow.
fountain, wipe dark chalkboard clean, like night skies,
in starry dark fountain below

and begin again from nothing at all.
fountain, we’re swept into fears,
too far beyond tomorrows, my fountain,
there’s time now for sorrow and tears.

fountain, my white paper cranes are awaiting
for castles of pride crumbling down
fountain, when all that is gone, who’s waiting?
who, then, will balance the crown?

my fountain, when all is gone and returning,
and i stumble to you in the rain,
fountain, won’t you, over pale copper blue,
let me whisper to you again?

T. E. Pyrus