It's like waking up

It's like waking up,
When I have to leave,
An incisive alarm
My present self must sheathe.
Your dreamy wrap surrounds me
And my body feels you breathe.
It's tempting not to rise just yet,
To match the sleepy heave,
But the busy world demands me
And has rung my rusty bell.
Though if I had the time
I'd reside beside you still.

Gladiator

Head reclined,
He closed his mouth and looked resigned.
I prodded at his arm,
Reminding him the time,
His own unfortunate alarm.
He didn't move,
Then nodded once like this,
As if to approve.
His plating scraped,
And his motions turned to lines.
The trapdoors parted
Amidst the masses' shouts.
The armor started
Beneath the sun to shine.

Perchance to Dream

What are you doing?
I'm writing my friend,
Stroking black ink on
Blank paper with pen.
What, though, is the purpose
Of this earthly toil,
It's useless to drafting
Or seeding the soil.
Even a housemaid
Brings water to boil!
Oh friend, dear friend,
Why cannot you see
The worthiness of poetry?
The keeper, the sower,
The draftsman in turn
Their daily wages
Duely earn,
And like the vulture
Tearing to the bone,
A man subsists
Beyond his bread alone.

What remained

The yellow shards, jagged.
The purple base, standing still,
A staunch shattered blade
Receiving rites, entombed within
A black backpack, half-closed,
Half-draped over the promontories
Of what remained.

The man, sitting. The sofa, sinking.
The eyes, set, open, empty.
The fingers, long and twiddling
A blue Bic over and under,
Over and under. A low base note
Echoing in the skull. Above
And ahead, the grey walls,
The studded stucco walls
Smeared with charcoal and dust.
The body, silent, lame.
The mind lingering on
The song's last phrase,
The bong's last days.
The stare.

As far to east as west proceeds

As far to east as west proceeds,
As far to north as south projects,
In your whispers I'll believe,
Your silent touch I won't forget.