awakening 

none but dreamers sail
these wine-dark skies
roaming between island worlds
wandering amongst the stars
with some unknown helmsman 
	at the watch 
for dawn in an unending night
amid all the Milky-Way 
	wraiths of ancient ammonites 
lost and undying
within the gravity waves
washing away everything but time
craving a new creation
or perhaps an end of this one
in the belly of some Scylla 
	or Charybdis 
but who can ever decide
to wake from this dream

universal 

look
within 
many eyes
for tragedy 
~~~~~
unassumingly 
is disguised within as hope 
providing a tool to cope
with indifference 
~~~~~
the universe 
throws out, as
time’s sand
gnaws
the bones
of longing, 
covetousness, 
~~~~~
ghosts of ancient myths
drifting against cosmic winds
where darkness itself transcends 
the shining of stars
~~~~~
brief instances
of meaning
lonely
in
all of
an empty
vain universe 
~~~~~
continuing its 
trifling with our brief lives
and meaning itself derives 
hollow equations 
~~~~~
that finally  
everything
we know
isn’t

desolation

listening to the indifferent piping of an unseen flute
as the black stars rise over Aldebaran’s misty spires
and tragedy lingers unassuming, waiting resolute
haunted by pain within the cosmic nebulas’ gyres 

as the black stars rise over Aldebaran’s misty spires
even still echoing with haunted voices speaking lost words
haunted by pain within the cosmic nebulas’ gyres 
and all of the dying worlds crumbling into crystal sherds 

even still echoing with haunted voices speaking lost words
of stranger gods, cold and hard, gnawing on the bones of life
and all of the dying worlds crumbling into crystal sherds 
all of their struggle and clinging earns them naught but despite 

of stranger gods, cold and hard, gnawing on the bones of life
amidst the desolation that remains at the end of time 
all of their struggle and clinging earns them naught but despite 
‘cause even at the end the gods themselves play at pantomime 

amidst the desolation that remains at the end of time 
and tragedy lingers unassuming, waiting resolute
‘cause even at the end the gods themselves play at pantomime 
listening to the indifferent piping of an unseen flute

---

Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet, and playwright living in Tehachapi, CA.  His poetry has appeared in: Silver Blade, Penumbra, and many other places. His first chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon. His poem “there are fossils” came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition.

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