Dark Water’s Game (The Flood)

I still hear the sound of its silent march
reaching and rising, that dark waters game.
Drowned the dreaming, it, always shall parch
my sore hearted throat, all morrows the same.
Tide into tide and into tide rolled darkness
until of what remained I could draw only death,
floating in my hours, in my gaze thoughtless
soulless those vessels of life sans breath.
There shall not ever, from that lifelessness
come to remembrance pasts visage untainted
nor shall emerge, from that endlessness
a hope which to hope may be acquainted.
Yet I do not mourn the many fields now lost
nor the memories reddened by the river of mud
not even my ones kindred or their life it cost
but the fact that I remained to witness the flood.

Eventuality of All Good Things

Wherever hangest a fruit of heaven,
If thou wert to come upon it someday,
surely shalt thou taste its nectar,
and on thy palette shall not reside
ecstasy, for it beist most evanescent,
faith, for is thine most capricious,
love, for it bears concupiscence,
but loss, for thou shalt cherish a memory.