Dear the softhearted:
Sympathy won’t come.
Mourn this day
and drink its poison,
leave the ones disembodied
to haunt and garrotte.
Dear the kindhearted:
Forgiveness won’t come.
Stand thin, bloodless.
Who’s waiting at home for you?
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
A neon glow,
a flourencent daze,
a shine of the sun’s rays upon a rose display.
The shade felt from a midnight ****
or from fire around tiki poles
in a field.
Some say it’s a recognized face
that makes one feel home.
But it’s a familiar light
that makes us
feel welcome.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
take my fears and
place them by
the river bed
--if you can--
swim near the shore
and hold my head
above water so
I can see land,
only then
will I believe
what’s in
store ahead.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Many are lost songs
dispersed in forests,
locked behind logs.
The keys were thrown
with penny-ful wishes.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
There are
leaves on the ground.
There are
few in the trees—
that hung on during winter;
that will be the first to go
come October.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
One match—
starting a fire
to thoughts and ideas
spreading in circles
attaching to everything
other people catching wind to it;
from the mountains
and the lowlands
it is seen.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Left me on sharp stones
fighting white caps in the ocean,
saying goodbye with our eyes.
Skin cut,
reading rulebooks.
This is heat this current leads,
and my hunger eats away at my hope of finding—
One of those small islands
(not able to be found on maps)
just to get away from the water
and sleep and tell what I’ve been travelling for,
‘cause I’ve been traveling for awhile now.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
You are a prayer
holding me together.
As migration sweeps down with its wings
and takes you,
I’ll wait my turn.
And when eventually I arrive,
will it be lonelier?
You spoke for me,
and now I’m left with years of silence.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Through the window—
the leaves set,
the redness sets,
but a heart will never set looking through it.
Through the window—
painted pictures
with the faintest reflections,
but still enough to catch the eye.
Through the window—
are lives surreal
hoping to never see the truth,
but what would forgiveness mean then?
Through the window—
a long to feel,
to touch,
but your hand will break at the reach.
To the dreamer’s mind,
existence is only through the window.
To my own mind,
love makes me sad.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
There’s an eagle hanging above the city
with sheets draped below the shoulders
and mouth dry from this famine.
There’s time hidden in the water,
if I could only learn to breathe
or walk on it.
There’s a lot left to see.
But as my eyes worsen the longer open,
I wonder—
what day is to make the best of?
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC