That beggar always
On the corner of my mind
His hat heavy
Holding spared hopes
Him and I are similar kind
Who find
Dropped dreams
Mostly-smoked secrets
And half-eaten promises
While wandering through their refuse
With nothing of ours to lose
That beggar always
Asks me
Scraping at the change of my mind
And I pat my pockets
Full of empty thoughts
That I know can't satisfy his hat
So I smile back
And say
Dreams are like diseases
Some might have a cure.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
In lumbering night shadows,
between burns by branding irons
like cigarettes,
We blister talking toungues
and reveal the soft flesh
of ourselves.
So easily, our embers
make incense of our arms
and red, wet, wounds
pool beneath the wrist.
We sat for time,
trying not to scab over;
smouldering our speech
with singeing ire.
Despite the heat,
we couldn’t help
but heal
as dawn cracked, and
in fire of the light,
with hammering heads,
we forged scars
for each other,
for each ever.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC