Sonnettics

At rest with restless visions of the day,
the day to come when restlessness abates,
I fold the light in subtle shades of gray
behind my resting eyes where vision waits
for that-which-clouds to solemnly disperse
like mist reveals its absence in the lake
as smooth as god removing morning’s curse
or silence in the cries which gods forsake.
I sleep in some precarious embrace
of warmth beneath the presence of the sky
which signifies the darkness I replace
with civil twilight, dreams, and no reply.
Replaced beyond millennia of hope,
I wake into the light through which we grope.

---

The Edge of Twilight

Marcus lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as shadows danced across it, cast by the faint light of the streetlamp outside. Sleep evaded him, as it often did, leaving him stranded between the waking world and the one beyond—a purgatory of thought and vision. Tonight, though, felt different. There was a weight in the air, as though the universe itself held its breath.

He closed his eyes, letting the restless images of the day bleed into one another. The coffee cup he’d shattered that morning. The hurried footsteps on the subway. The stranger who had brushed past him with an expression that seemed carved from stone. Each moment flickered and faded, replaced by the dim gray of waiting.

But as Marcus drifted, something shifted. The familiar hum of his apartment dissolved, replaced by a profound stillness. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his room.  

He stood at the edge of a vast lake, its surface impossibly smooth, reflecting a sky caught between night and day. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else—something ancient.  

From the mist that clung to the water, a figure emerged. It was neither man nor woman but something in between, draped in robes that seemed to shimmer with the hues of twilight. Their face was obscured, yet their presence was undeniable, commanding.  

“Why have you come?” the figure asked, their voice echoing as though it came from the depths of the lake itself.  

“I don’t know,” Marcus replied, his own voice sounding distant. “I think I was looking for rest.”  

The figure tilted their head, considering him. “Rest is not found here. Only understanding.”  

Marcus frowned. “Understanding of what?”  

“Of what lies beneath,” the figure said, gesturing to the lake. “The surface is smooth, but it hides much. Your visions, your fears, your desires—they all dwell below. To rest, you must face them.”  

As they spoke, the water began to ripple. Shapes emerged beneath the surface—faces, moments, fragments of Marcus’s life. The shattered coffee cup reappeared, but now it seemed to hold more than spilled liquid. It brimmed with guilt, regret for words unsaid. The subway stranger returned, their stony expression now a mirror of Marcus’s own isolation.  

“I don’t want to see this,” Marcus said, stepping back.  

The figure’s voice softened. “You must. To fold the light, you must first let it break.”  

Marcus hesitated, then knelt at the water’s edge. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the surface. The lake dissolved into a cascade of memories and emotions, washing over him in waves. He felt the weight of every decision, every moment he had tried to bury, and yet, as the tide receded, he found himself lighter.  

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his room. The first light of dawn filtered through the blinds, painting the walls in soft shades of gray. Marcus sat up, his heart steady, his mind clearer than it had been in years.  

He didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough. The restless visions would return, as they always did, but now he knew they were not to be feared. They were a part of him, and like the mist on the lake, they would disperse in time, revealing the stillness beneath.  

And with that, Marcus rose, ready to face the light.

Should my psychosis lead you like a song
remembered from realities of blood
beyond your sacred sanity, how long
would music be the flame before the flood?
What beaten rhythm pounded from your heart
would course through my realities of doubt?
What rising voice could patently impart
divinity with madness or without
the sacrifice of spirit in your veins
which rises from your chest into your throat?
Recall the taste of love when love remains
within the balance of a single note,
when blood becomes the mystery of mind
and music is the savior of mankind.

I know the only thing I want is you,
beside me when my empty hand is cold,
when warmth is in your fingertips and through
your warm caresses, I can feel you hold
my silent hopes within your soft embrace,
my silent song within your tender heart.
Your strength suffices beauty with your grace
in dreams I have of you when we’re apart.
Like memories of you when we’re apart
before I ever knew that warmth could be
beside me and inside me, your sublime
intoxicating spirit sets me free.
Where nothing I have known is what I knew,
I know the only thing I want is you.

She waits like perfume lingering within
the softest folds and fabric of the robe
she wore against the presence of her skin;
presented in her patience, time is slowed
like warmth in late November, like a leaf
that feels the perfect breeze yet clings aloft
to barren branches.  Where is the release
of autumn perfume, lingering and soft?
She waits like autumn, waits for me to fall,
full-knowing life will tumble, drift and sway
my brittle soul.  I sense the subtle call
of perfume in the robe she wore that day
when gently she assured my lofty doubt
that she would wait until it all worked out.

Self-satisfied at how her hand has swept
the tarnish from the heirloom of her heart,
she thinks of how she held him, how she wept,
and how she cried when they were miles apart.
So clean, the caustic rub, the gentle rag
has wiped the stain of memory away
from silver cups and spoons kept in a bag,
contained for once-a-year or cleaning day.
Reflection is distorted in the curve
of her perception, held without remorse,
as light becomes a token to observe;
she lets the reminiscence run its course.
Then, satisfied the silver bears no trace
of love, she puts it safely in its place.

Begin as if beginning was the end
of time when muscles rest and skin is dry.
There is no time to hesitate; extend
your will beyond the horizontal sky.
Now pull each stride beneath you as the road
concedes to your omnipotence of grace.
Flow forward like a river and erode
the confidence of time with rushing pace.
Hold on to spirit rising from within
your heart; hold on to spirit like a song
that calls you like a siren to begin
each stride like the beginning; move along
the course as if the world was yours to run
and race the end as if you’d just begun.