Spilled ink means spiders
tread footprints where endeavors
are to be most foul
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
hindsight is twenty-
twenty, especially with
rose-tinted glasses
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
We can run together in a reality of our own,
Built upon the notion that such one can exist,
Chasing white rabbits with golden pocket chained watches,
We can see were the wild things are
And ask all the questions we’ve hidden sheepishly under our beds.
We can open closet doors and discover new adventures,
Greeted by a lamppost which we can light by hand,
Matches burning to reflect what we see,
As we peer in awe into the looking glass.
We exist together, forever and always,
Finding out who’s on top of that small speck of dust,
Confronting him with a “Why hello there young mister!”
And then bid him a polite adieu.
Tip our top hats to mystery men in monocles,
Slow dance in the rain as if not a drop will strike us,
As devious cats watch gleefully with sly smiles,
We turn gracefully in time to the cadence of the storm.
This place is one we can escape to,
The ladder into the land of many,
Somewhere we can call our own,
And exist as if this can mean to be,
Where men hide behind their mustaches
And children gallivant in their sand castle worlds,
But we can simply stay here, my dear,
Among what can be perceived as basic and unforgiving,
But that’s the way the cards are dealt to us,
And we make do.
Here we can exist as we are meant to be.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
Lightly airbrushed girls, they tie ribbons in
their hair. Speak of innocence as they kneel
to their own affairs and softly say their
prayers. Skeletons and piano keys,
porcelain, extraordinarily white
and wary to be played, so unlike your
auricular thoughts. Grimoires and cairn like
symphonies, we’re wanting to be repaired.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC