Tempus Fugit

By Bud Koenemund

In consciousness rises the poet’s plight:

Cursed with knowing time is fleeting; slipping

Past; each moment another dying light;

As, from our birth, those flames are flickering.

Days lost become years; progressing quickly,

Faded and forgotten; surrendered to

Accelerating relativity,

‘Fore the call of skills neglected renews.

Imagination yearns for expression,

And – as this journey hastens toward its end –

A stab at immortality; Passion

Racing the doom we cannot comprehend.

   Crafting perfection is my endeavor;

   Some scrap of verse that will live forever.

It Comes at Night

By Bud Koenemund

It comes at night, when I am defenseless.
Black and amorphous, lurking beyond sight;
Yet crushing: enveloping the senses
In fear. Doubt paralyzes, inviting
A surrender I would willingly give.
This unnamed dread – spirit malicious –
Abuses intellect, holding captive
Reason as my own mind becomes seditious;
Left vulnerable to shadows and ghosts –
Specters of depression which mock defeats,
Real or imagined, while I suffer; lost
As thoughts betray: embracing light’s retreat.
   Despair creeps, growing stronger in this gloom,
   Enticing me ever closer to doom.