Saturday, July 31, 2010


Within stone weary walls of a crumbling castle
there is a staircase, circular but linear,
once thought to spiral upwards
towards the balistraria window.

Light filtered through dust mites
in the rise and fall of days, seasons, empires
and crept away with the waxy wane of predators.

Arrows shot out at the imaginary birds
and beasts, and quivered to the ground
to the sound of a sorrowful trumpet.

The staircase is grey and damp, yet
light meets darkness in the twilight dawn
and turns upon itself, as a mobius strip
meeting an infinite joust.

The crumbling stone holds the sands
of a makeshift hourglass
waging war upon itself.

In silence I surrender.


  1. Brilliant write here. I like the oxymoron feel here. It is something like what I write.

  2. Thanks Real Me... just riffing on insistent images.