For Sonia

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I

A pale dawn breaks upon the day,
Wisps following behind, not yet led astray
Cascading down the brae
And off to seize tomorrow.

The pallid sheen of an achromatic dress
Will it lead to an egress
In the affection I feel from one’s caress?
Will it bring me sorrow?

I feel the mist upon my face,
Here in this forgotten place
While I sit, silently, and retrace
That which seems so apropos.

What is the answer? I cannot say.
Hearing these thoughts ricochet,
Trying to figure out how not to betray
My truth, in flight, aglow.

II

I attended a party last night.

A dull affair, by most means. Watered down spirits, and I don’t just mean the drinks. I had not planned on staying for long. A couple of glasses, a conversation or two, and then off to bed. But then she approached me.

Was it my aura? Was it the stain on the left side of my torso? Whatever it was, something consociated us, linking us together. Two indelible, intoxicated compatriots.

Slurring her words together, she began to talk of homophones. Words that sounded the same but were not. The contrast between what is and what could easily be. At least, that’s what I assumed she was talking about. It became difficult to discern any specific words from one another. Her diatribe went on, as she pointed out the difference between “pique” and “peak”, between “raise” and “raze.” I was losing patience and was ready to retire.

“And what about censor, censer, and sensor? Who is to say what anything means after all?” She mumbled into incoherence, drifting off into the crowd.

And so I thought. What about them?

Does a censer censor from the senses? That which isn’t seen can still be present. When does a sensor betray a censor? How am I to keep track of my cents? No, my sense. Do the censors have any sense? No, scents. Camphor fills my nose, a sensation of scents, of cense.

I mused on this, inhaling my scotch. Flat stones fitting into palms, skidding across the stream of my thoughts.

She was right, of course.

Who is to say what anything means after all?

III

Effervescent ephemera, drifting
From inexperience to something
Satisfactory. Observations can only bring
One so close to reality, before even
Reality begins to whisper
Saccharine vows. Honeysuckle, a most
Bitter tincture, acerbic like wit, caustic like
A lover’s nuzzle. The truth lies somewhere in
Between, within that canyon of
Apprehension and anticipation. Doubt
Creeps across one’s sulci, malachite
Tendrils massaging anxieties. To kill is
No small task, but to execute that which remains
Within? There, does it all flourish. Adequately,
Charms flutter across the skin, stroking and
Instilling vellichor. Or is it petrichor?

IV

Falling
Within
Without
Form
A cacophony of
Endless
Carbons
Chained together
Bonded
Fettered
Who is to say
What is up?
What is
Forward?
Who
Is?
Lethe
Leading to nirvana
An end
Or a new beginning