Posts tagged “Mortality






Merciful thread of Grace–
Why hast thou bound me with Fate?
Not e’en Destiny can show me fair recourse.
Thus will come a day, when I shall look back on today
only to know that tomorrow will ne’er

Charles Coakley Simpson

Tender Hooks

tumblr_lnnitslUhU1qh262so1_400Tender hooks

Tender are the hooks of what might have been
thus with fond despair I do regale in them

Splendor of sadness and lighthearted regret
are the sustenance of hearts thus beset

Might the trappings of hope been false with allure
I grieve them with grace that I may endure

Thus I pray fair the imminence of death
shall spare you the pain of my dying breath

and think of me, as I thought of you when
Tender were the hooks of what might have been.

Charles Coakley Simpson





There are no birds today–
clouds wither slowly along the horizon,
and in the distance–the delicate sound of thunder.
Might it simply be the wings of angels having stole you away,
or the torment that tears tenderly at my heart
knowing that the world is too big
Without you

Charles Coakley Simpson

The Dead

c61The Dead

Lying in the cold-hard bed, he waits for sleep to take him.

The snow falls quietly outside his window and yet the night is filled with the sounds of darkness–a lover’s quarrel, the alibi of a passing train, the shriek and cry of a forgotten child, and still he lies there waiting—waiting for sleep to take him, a name sitting voicelessly on his lips.

And in the shadows he longs for her touch. He imagines her beside him–face shrouded in the half-light; the sheets delicately forming the line of her hip.  She lies in silence beneath his watch–silent like the edge of night where the wind is still and the trees do not speak.

His heart trembles to be next to her. His eyes follow the nakedness, climbing the curve of her spine, crossing the breadth of her shoulders, and pressing his lips gently into the crescent of her throat he remembers how her kisses used to taste like moonlight and mercy.

And the snow continues to fall quietly–scurrying down the empty streets, huddling into the darkened doorways, covering the green fields where the trees used to fly up to the birds and still he lies there waiting–waiting for sleep to take him–to where the lilacs bloom.

The clock chimes madly in the darkness.

Charles Coakley Simpson