Death Left a Box

Escaping unspoken promises,
The landscape moves on,
Like a dying actor,
Its mask is gone.

The mask dipped in blood
Of deep despair
Becomes a mosaic window
Reflecting life's glare.

Disappearing behind stones of feathers
Of brilliant hue,
Appearing to rescue
While giving revenge its due.

Courting fantasy and fiction,
Juggling notice and mystique,
An honest hypocrite of folly,
Leaving the landscape bleak.

Death is like a folded box
Containing treasures we hold dear.
Move it gently by the window,
I will look another year.

While Good Men Sleep

One by one, they nod and listen,
Waiting for eternal bliss,
Waiting for the final moment,
Like vultures on the sharp abyss.

Sleeping, dreaming, good men awaken.
Shadows melt the morning sun.
Who was here?, the good men ponder.
Someone touched me, I must run.

Run to fields or find a reason
Why the shadows seem to fall,
Leaving shadows on the doorstep,
Slightly turning when they call.

I'll be back, I whisper softly.
Knowing it is not really true.
In the minds of ghosts and shadows,
It is all that I can do.