Does the flame attract the moth on purpose
Does it like to see her burn
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 12:31 AM UTC
I'm trying. Like trying to grow roses on asphalt--
we go to gather
like two too similar shades of blue.
And what is it about 3am that can make a spirit shout?
And how does the sound an, "I'll always love you,"
makes as it streaks through
space turn into a forever kind of
silence?
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
I can see hollow places in the hedgerow.
There are voids from stalk to stalk, but they shield each other from the outside world. An aegis of natural kinship forcing me out.
Safe, inaccessible, inviting, shadowed loam hints of escape.
Keeping to the public path is compulsory.
And there are parched things here maintaining their drought despite the deluge as the fountain grass keeps watch o'er the spillway below their wall. The rainwater doesn't wash out all the antiquated, little, abandoned pennies discarded there with facades slowly being worn away.
A dozen blunt faceless men stare up at the bridge with no mouths with which to share the careless, one cent wishes which flung them here to be forgotten.
I know it's wrong.
But for a second it smells like wild onions--like home. Life's intoxicating perfume floods, impairs good sense. Amidst Cassian's Choice, October Skies above, below staining a gray skyline with hidden life--
I had choices to; decisions too late to undo.
I uprooted myself from that silken touch and holy embrace. I remember the first time I felt lace. Now a cassock hangs void hinting of a bypassed path. Now I lay fallow like a spillway waiting to be stained with another year of shadowed hopes.
There are hollow places in me the rain can't touch. An aegis of broken kinship keeping the world out.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
She considered for a moment, gazing into her own eyes in the mirror, that she might indeed be a universe. A bolt of clarity struck her as she considered that in the end there may be little distinction between a universe and a god. She turned away from herself. 11:12. She was lonely and hungry.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC
All I really want is to talk to you rather than distract myself with the petty things I do.
I'm almost gone.
A deep hollow in my chest leaches at my sanity leaving me bereft of a connection that could seal up the cracks in my heart from which leak my wounded humanity.
Scrolling through my Facebook feed leaves my hungering for what I really need.
The stupid games and apps light up my phone and make me forget that I'm alone.
Tomorrow creeps into each patchwork day. You can't hold time it slips away.
Each hour is fractured by distraction the sun is sinking before I gain traction.
While I'm not looking I miss the sunset. Time to cushion my head with this night's fret.
I won't sleep tonight, like most. My place is haunted. I'm the ghost.
I drift the twilight between realms with clipped wings and overwhelmed.
Sun and moon chase round about; light blinded eyes, thick-dark-muffled-shout.
That's the way it is at night things look different by starlight.
But which am I the sun or moon; do I give chase or am I pursued?
I won't find the things I seek. I'm stuck like this from week to week.
To be needed is exhausting, but to be not needed is accosting.
I need to hear you hearing me and be realified in that harmony.
Instead of trapped between death and life, I'll be free when I see you seeing that I'm Being. Existence could suffice, yet personhood is reciprocally conferred. Make me a Being like you then you'll be a christ.
What is my name?
You say that you can't read my mind as if I haven't put it down line by line.
I want to know I'm more than heat rising from the pavement to dissipate in the sky. Or else call me Mirage--If you can't see me, feel me, hear me.
I'm already gone.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
I am often too hot and too cold at the same time.
But I'd prefer a negative view of myself to a false one every time.
It is a heavy thing to be caught in the gravity of two great cosmic forces. Greatness and obscurity--how they rend the soul caught in their tidal struggle.
Truth and perception how great a chasm between you and how many black bodies have been broken by the Fall to the bottom like a lead-fed whip laying into history's backside laying open our hopes and dreams, exposing love to unseasonable air. It spoils in light obscured by empire's greed.
I can't tell what's real. I don't know how to dress for this.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
Use flowery language to
dress up the dreadful things
pin to them silken wings
adorn them with golden rings
and when a dark memory sings
dress up the dreadful things.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Where have all the poets gone
Old friends to whom I've sung love's song
and new ones that I've not known long
We met somewhere east of space and west of time
Now their name's replaced with those dash lines
They've gone and took something of mine
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
I want to make you real
I want to write you into being,
teach you how to feel.
Can I be the song you sing;
can my every keystroke heal?
Let my touch reach beyond fiber and cord,
to reach you where you cry alone
so you know that you're adored.
Discounting the distance we'll both be home;
though apart we have found a sweet accord.
This is my conspiracy
to speak to you so sweetly
that you forget life's maddening pain
and in your heart let self-love reign.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC