Here it is.

when she laughs I whisper a prayer
from the bottom of my lungs and gut
a drifting intangent thing, like the ghost of
a halo, the crust of the sun in a million miles of blackness
fortunately she doesn't hear it,
its a secret in truth, and in truth its found.
that each day I see the coronal glimpse,
the tempered heat and light shine from her eye
as her graceful chin rises and her hair falls back
my thoughts a reflection, a bow to her implacable shine.

Trite and Bitter.

As I loosen the ash
of the last cigarette of the night,
I feel trite, and bitter for it,
but dreams leak in
and words leak out,
and dashing through the night,
I feel a peaceful sleep come on
that makes it all alright.
The sleep's not mine,
my eyes are peeled
but my apprehension's gone.
With book and lap
and pen and pad
I quietly soldier on.
My bitterness fades and
lightness comes and
soon things seem okay.
I read some more
and write some more
and light one more today.

I am Witness.

This quiet room exudes,
in smoky memories and tattered thoughts
that drift beneath my senses,
an edifying truth,
a rigid, buzzing wall
of thoughtless facts.
I cannot touch them or see them
or even dream of their light airy existence,
but they make my blond hairs bristle,
and my eyes narrow in shape.
My lungs suck them through the dim light
and they force themselves into my blood,
my very heart.
Even if I leave, never return,
and even if the room turns black and burns away,
and even if I never drift again
in my mind to its shadowy attic ways,
a legion of traceless iota
have burrowed into my being,
an endless source of the room's existence,
and to it 'til my grave,
I am witness.