She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent,--
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
The trees will soon be barren, all.
It is that time of year -- the Fall.
The understory never was,
and can't now house the insect buzz.
And, so, the woods stand silently --
nothing treads in peace, nor violently.
It's empty; devoid of motion:
life hides below, as in Oceans.
It does feel like we're out to sea -
a strange place where both sides are lee.
And - so - we're stuck, we can't move on,
but can see promise over yon.
Welcome to the masquerade!
It is your home from now on.
The you you were will soon fade
as you play out the long con.
Welcome to the masquerade!
Where all faces are untrue.
We are just the roles we've played,
not the selves we never knew.
Welcome to the masquerade!
Do you know just who I am?
I'm only what I've conveyed.
It's the "real me" that's a sham!
I cannot be one.
I cannot be lost.
I cannot buy my entry
at a payable cost.
I cannot be three.
I cannot be boss.
I cannot isolate: diamonds
from the dross.
I think I can be two,
just the me & you.
our two could be one,
like two planks form a cross.
dying by the second
from a starving brain;
each new panicked moment
narrows down the frame.
now, my world is dwindling,
shrinking to a dot:
like TV's used to do
when you shut them off.
Now, this poem is done.
there's nothing past one pel --
except for oblivion:
no sight, no sound, no smell.
Stumps are underwater.
The pebble beach is gone.
Floating docks slant downstream
as fast waters roll on.
Detritus on pylons:
a beaver dam of wood.
Coffee brown waters flow
where yesterday I stood.
Will the levees stand strong
until the surge recedes?
Will the flood wash away
the willows and the reeds?
The desert called; its tone silent.
It asked me out, and so I went.
One patch of dune looked like the rest;
so, I couldn't tell which place was best
to burn just like a slice of bread
stuck in the slot, 'mid burning threads:
those glowing wires, exuding heat
that burn the head and burn the feet.
And so, I marched across the sands
in search of more temperate lands,
but I never reached such a place
and vanished there, without a trace.
Something shakes the high grass,
what it is I can't say.
I see flowers tremble,
near a part-line splay.
I hear dry stems rattle
to some darting moves.
But a creature's existence
still remains unproved.
Maybe it's delirium,
or a trick of the wind.
I catch no flash of fur
on which my claim to pin.
Even from the watchtower,
my grounds are circumstantial.
I can't give proof of life --
at least not that's substantial.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 