008: Soft tones / Fall

She's as beautiful as the world within me,
paralyzed I watched, overruling the disturbance of breathing.
Such pores echo the dunes of dried seas,
bleeding gold, speared through fumy clouds,
resound from granite spires to the gravity spine;
disconnecting, diving in acrylic caves,
twin lakes of ice would swallow me, a perfect end,
sublime stabbing joy in kingship of the blind.
It's where tongues are still - for names defile
and fragments of silence from the first dawn
shimmer among dewdrops, as comets trace auburn trails
tense tectonic fingers witness.
She's an icon of insomnia in a cathedral of sleep,
worshipped in masses of weary hours,
image engraved in timeless spheres of void,
wordless rapture in the garden of wrought iron roses,
in conduits of scarlet flow, a life alive,
the ever burning fire.

007: All is as it should be

Devil's name cast in the beams and girders
of opaque exoskeletons,
gaps walled up by eclipse bricks
to dent the edges of the cube,
to dim granite sentiment
born of friction floods
and asymptotes of pining.
These windshields hide seed banks of doubt,
glacial deserts where nuclear steeds roam,
the light from a frail singularity,
encased in soot, fragrant of earth,
crossed in flesh, a theater of war
where erratic contractions count
to the tribulation of starbirth.