Imprisoned

I am
the Lady of Shallott
watching in the glass
as Lancelot passes by
in various disguise
(as him, and him, and her)
always seeking,
but never reaching
beyond these prison walls
wandering empty halls
vainly praying
for something or someone
to save me
from myself.

Ghost II

When the soft hand of spring
Caresses the fragrant earth
With delicate drops of west coast rain
That drip from the tips of my lashes
I will come to you in the night
Draped in gossamer white
For I am nothing
But a ghost who haunts these docks
Translucent skin and raven locks
With fingers that ache to reach
Through soft gray fog
And time and space
Into the place
Where I lost my life
Burned at the stake
By the crimson fire
Of the tortured desire
Flaming in your eyes.

Fledgling

The indigo sky
assembled too quickly
before the back drop
of yesterdays dream
drapes the wings
that barely shelter
this badly bruised
fledgling we conceived.