The Doll

“ ‘Have this doll,’ he said.
‘It will come alive’, he said.”
“Who?” her daddy said.

“The man from the sky:
Where the light came from.” “The sky?”
“Why did Mommy die?”

He was all alone:
“Did that doll move on its own?”
He felt less alone.

 

In the Fog

Cloud falls awkwardly
as fog, drifting like the smoke
from my cremation

as if to shroud me
as a secret from the world,
grant me timeless rest

not found on planets
that round flames of living hell
roast death on a spit

so others might live.
Oblivion is mine
and I have freedom,

frail as a wisp,
more precious than the diamonds
sought by sightless hordes…

Freedom! Then the wind
removes the cloak it lent me,
and the Moon can see.

‘Forever’, once more,
is a notion ill-defined –
and is that the time?