Wishing when

I spent my life
wishing when,
that spell whistling
at my heart.
A tug,
a tear,
and all the frosty drag it holds.

That bitter cold
a balm that numbs,
and reflecting
that a feeling
is more than
some quiet alone.

I accept that
ever after is
nevermore;
these things ourselves
tell us
that then shed
rhythmically asunder.

Each beat is a probe.
Our heart,
it's faithful prole.

And tomorrow,
as well as
all to follow,
will the frigid
beg for friction
and I beg alike?

Moment after the moment

There is a moment 
after the moment
when all reside
with self.
The excuse that enervates
wanes 
under its own gravity.
And all the compulsion
that sells
evaporates 
like the joy
of so many fleeting beats.
But this life,
judged always and everywhere
as if chosen,
is not joy in form.
It is the catharsis --
	the release of the unwished for
	and eternally unbecoming.

Watch even as they wield the grand attempt,
so unobservant where the
passion spreads thickly.

Curses!  For the moment
after the moment
when the energy that
enervates dies
its trivial death.