eleventh night

his face
pale like the moon
on a cold silent night
or the red planet Mars
bled of all that is bright
a great sea of fog
washes over his brain
a thunderous storm
or some poisonous stain
like moon tides it rises 
from miles away
I pen in my journal 
that it’s on its way

he fixes his eyes
on some strange apparition
his auras must be 
like a sick premonition
my boy arcs like a dancer
frozen in space
I call out his name
cup my hands to his face
we beckon him back
from this night’s black abyss
put our lips to his neck
and give him a kiss

he is lost to this world
in some transient state
for this war on my boy
I feel nothing but hate
he stares like a doll
his eyes made of glass
for a moment we doubt
if the seizure will pass
as hot lightening bolts
run amok in his head
 I imagine my boy
looking so when he’s dead

as the minutes tick by
he remains in a daze
I sink like a rock
in a blackish malaise
again I call out
to my raggedy doll
and he tries to get up
from his nightmarish fall
his skin starts to flush
like a gossamer lace
now a thumb to his mouth
the moon in
his face
Originally published 11.12.12


  1. It's so horrifically hard, yet you still create beauty.

  2. This cry in poetry still tears at my heart. The repetition only makes the pain more intense. You have succeeded in letting us in, and I can only offer my hand, my good wish without words. Believe me, you and Michael are not alone.