The Weave

Tumbled streams of incandescence
Fire and ice intertwined
Probability reflected in impossibility

An afterglow of unreason
A relentless tide of endless seasons
From a distance I can see the end of all things
And in each one is the start of something new

Filaments bound together
By a flood of thought unraveling
The tapestry of Order reveals Chaos
And its undoing is my becoming

If ever there was reason in endings
It is only that when only threads remain
It’s time to make something new

Echoes of October

Echoes of October haunt me,
lingering like the last gossamer
strands of sleep after waking
from a night of drifting on dragonfly wings,
leaving only ghosts to illuminate
a darkness that is heavy and
uncompromising in its comfort;
months away from a yesterday
that will never come, I dwell now
between this world and that,
this being and that,
and wander ceaselessly among
a field of fallen stars and our
fading iridescence. There is no
tomorrow where I am, only an
emergence–from this world to that,
from this being to that, and only is it
offered in echoes of October.