Proverbial

An unrelenting and tired walk,
Now familiar, now strange,
On the quest of what has 
Revealed to have always been
Nothing
But an ever haunting Mirage.
Yet the walk refuses to end;
Stubbornly clawing on to
That one painfully rare chance 
For the Mirage to be conjured as

The Proverbial-
Oasis in the Desert.

Edge to the Brink

From the edge of the Sea
At the brink of the Earth
A river flows backwards
On to the struggling boat
Rowing towards the Sea 
On it's desperate quest to
Leave the Earth forever,
Forgotten, murky, forlorn.
Neither the wind favours
Nor does the tide allow,
The oars row fatigued
Yet the boat remains just
Where it set out for voyage.
Would there be a freak gust;
Or a fated turn of the tide;
Or forever is it destined to 
Row in ennui yet only fail?

Pantomime

Moving daubs of pale blue
Silent, with chilled efficiency
Floating amidst stark white.
A bleeping red pulse dot
Within a box of plastic and
Snaking metal on silicon.
A clockwork box bubbling
And pumping fumes besides
A reclining cot of cold metal.
Canned and pressurized within
An aging torpedo flaking green,
Hissing oxygen, every other hour.
Needle tipped plastic veins
Dripping 'life-savers' into
Tired sluggish blood plumbing.
Struggling reluctantly to keep 
That proverbial fire going, the two
Forlorn, fatigued bellows within the chest;
For next door lives a mass of muscle
For whom is this entire pantomime,
Beating mechanical in black melancholy.
The past months have been eons,
The past week an eternity.

Blink

Draped from her dainty throat Down to her porcelain ankles In a radiant white gossamer of That exuberant Spring nimbus She stretched in the langour of A bubbling winter valley brook. Behind every blink of my vision I see her only with eyes closed. She's a vision not for the light But of fleeting moments which Live in between wakeful sight.

Luna

For a walk I headed on In search of that, of which I write many an ornate word. I chased but just its wake Of that light which shines Now mercury, now silver. I ran and yet I felt its chill It smiled from its lunar sky Morbidly indulgent of me.
There it was and then not, There again and not again.