November.
It lives in the stillness of the dried,
fallen leaf
in the vapor and legs
of melancholic trees
the red hues of sunsets
in the thin veil of bareness.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
My hands bleed here
a hum of darker red
cold is the body of
remembrance.
You – lovely, with no shape
hair of thorns
a ruby in the throat –
crawl and dig inside
long after the dust
has turned the walls
a heavy shade of black.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Darkness
the familiar ghost,
the curious figure,
with its pallid face
and naked wisdom
carries me in sleep.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
The stains that we keep
change the skins
to flowers devoid of color
crippled and veinless
turning our bodies stiff like trunks,
cornered,
in the back of our throats.
These wounds are
rugged diamonds.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
I find comfort
in the mysterious,
in unspoken words.
My skin
grows in wilderness
hiding in things that yearn
to be touched.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
In quiet and empty nights I am like small breaths sitting still in the air. Something pulls and I sink into this bed. Loosening fibers. This feeling aches, it lingers, the seeds sprout. I am no longer I -- the form detaches. Thoughts visit momentarily and take flight. Take me hostage, I will not fight. Dreams are not so bitter and so I dream of an unknown world where we can keep our timid hearts in some sample of skin, maybe when we pass. And then like most things that grow vertically, we will fall to our knees. A tree will take our place and speak of us now and again. Oh how I wish it could be now!
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
Once again --
the formidable feeling:
immersing myself in waves
Or dispersing slowly
–
like a trail of stiff limbs
among the woods.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
I see myself as rain
awakened
in the soil.
A rebirth,
a mind alive,
a mad, feverish heart.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
Words come to me at twilight: I have bouts of thoughts where I imagine letting others in my cold, little room: to view the black paint splattered on the walls, the cracks on the floor, the trails that lead to raw, unfinished dreams. Other days - and more frequently - I’m like a board made of great, exemplary wood. I resist the outside. I do not know what I want, only what I need. And I need silence, forests of solitude, and souls that have substance and depth. Rare things. And to watch the birds that know of nests, at every sunset, so that maybe some remainder of feathers can find their way back to me.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
My curse is
I cannot hide my eyes
from the fire in your flesh.
I wander into dreams
where shadows are your body
wind, your silhouette
my breath, your fractures.
This house tastes of old bouquets
burnt letters, tired words (gnawing),
an endless ocean,
repeating
I, too, have cracks --
cold and deep.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC