Thrice knocks the empty one
upon the grieving door;
Thrice sobs the lonely one
having lost whom they adore

a sign for sure to tell you true
that love has passed to light;
a salve to heal through and through
to hold your dearest tight

ne’er move to answer hollow call
stay put, resist the beckoning;
or cursed you’ll be and held in thrall
as herald becomes your reckoning

the colour of our love
changes with the skies,
as a depth of light
that spills at dawn
pouring golden over us
until dusk and moonrise
brings a sliver and grey,
a stately and staid grace

we are a myriad of beauties
stretched across
our live’s shared frame
from burnished bronze flame
to hot, white star’s porclain

there are moments
small and bright
that rise to the surface
of life’s moors
and make me wonder –

“why not string them together
like small pearls ’round my neck,
discarding the larger, darker bits
into a shorter, brighter life?”

But we dive for oysters in the deep
where the waters are dark
and the treasures are held tighter
for the work involved
in bringing them above the waves

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random words discarded
like snake skins shed,
left dry upon the ground,
show an empty shape
a hollow ontology
that speaks of a passerby
that outgrew himself
and hints at his becoming

sit
tilt your head over the keyboard and
spill
every caustic, sweet mix
sugar and shit;
let it pour out to be dispersed
that i might be empty
a hollow man unburdened

he’s preoccupied with death
she said with a raised brow;
it was what you did
when something profound was said

his voice is meloncholy he said,
and over-dramatic
an amateur playing at a game
he cannot get into let alone win

they listened to each other
and found critical beauty
in their voices
it was a match made
in the New York Times Book Review

but passion that burns
with the ink of a thousand pens
can only last so long;
until they see the words of one-another
written painfully across their faces

“you’re pedantic!”

“you’re a dick!”

and they parted paths
to find passion in the pages
of other terrible poets
and the dry eyes of other critics
waiting to be mutually hateful

together.