These words are like
flower petals strewn across
a forgotten floor.
A contrast in a desolate space,
but chew them,
examine them, love them
and see their origins
birthed in poison.
They escape from their captor's
skin through long trailing tendrils
of ink
much in the way
the ***** pollinates the flower
and is never seen again,
much in the way the words are warped
by alliteration and savagely
captive in metaphors
like they belong in a simile
like they belong under the skin
the way a past made up of
a universe
can never quite make
anything whole again.
They don't quite belong in a
barren place such as this,
but can never move,
for  their venomous
cover would surely taint
all that is green and
full of life.
And if a wind, a breeze,
should lift them from
their resting place upon the floor,
they would surely float and dance
along,
in all normality,
in all the ways they should,
and will wither
and shed their toxic pieces
along the way
to cause coughing, sneezing,
and noses ****** like the watering can
that sprouted these
heinous flowers.
And they will fall
again.

You look like a light-colored satin
Stars f
          a
            l
              l on your caramel hair
Your laureate crown is permanent

You walk fast as a local feline
L'Empereur far from his throne
You look disoriented
You look tired

It's nightfalling
Resolution parts
The moon shines
Gold minds

Lace L'étoile
Jeune ace
Shiny sleeves

I go through a mirror
You're sitting in there
I hide carefully
Not to be alert
I have found myself again
Dreaming of you inside
The reflection of your mirror

At night my opal
                           sleeves are made of satin.

   - Codelandandmore// 6:00 PM ©

A world plunges into chaos
as world leaders with worldly
egos make decisions
based on what?
Because these small men cannot
fight their battles among themselves
they send children to **** children
and for what?
They drop bombs, the
Mother Of All Bombs
to collapse tunnels on
Mothers' sons.
Who authorized this?
With nuclear tensions rising
in a sea of ships
invading a country's personal space,
while the drums of war
beat with fervor
and the blood pounds in these
leaders' ears,
and the people that elected them
just sit back in fear,
as if they're watching
World War III
live and in color in a crowded
and dark theatre.
These men all think they
are on the right side of history,
and they are showing,
flexing,
their country's muscle,
they think to back down is
a display of weakness,
but it is the monks of the world,
the meek of the Earth,
which will outlast them all.
They think they can justify the
killing and slaughter of others,
but what happens if you flip it?
Would you not militarize as
a regular human as well
should your homeland be invaded?
How can we blame these people?
Is it too much to hope for
that we lay down these arms
and not destroy ourselves?
There is no you,
there is no me,
we do not **** others,
we only **** ourselves.
There is only us,
and we are all in this together.

It rained for three straight days
during my first visit
to you.
Fitting. I should have expected as much.
Especially if it corresponds to your happiness,
I can only be more thrilled
about rain
and what it brings down with it
and the slates it washes clean.

We drank with reservations
and read poetry with gusto
and fell to the floor with love
as the thunder clapped across the
valley
and the rain poured from our skin.

You are small,
not even close to helpless,
but I would face down anything
so that your hands may stay and fit
so delicately in mine and
so your lips would find mine
again.

When we met, finally,
and I felt your frame fall into mine,
trusting me enough for that
so soon,
I was honored,
and I knew that the fears I had
about what this would be like,
what you might be like,
what we might be like,
were unfounded,
and very complicatedly so.

Wouldn't it have been easier
to despise the other?
But no,
instead we fell into rhythm
as if we had never been out of sync,
we fell  into and onto each other
time and again
in ways that could only be described as
perfection.

I saw you gaze onto me
with a mystique only Picasso himself
would be able to render,
so I lost myself in your eyes
with words I've known for
long and with thoughts I could
finally say.

It rained for three straight days,
but on the day I left
the sun beamed through the sky.
So I left,
with kisses and kind words,
and it wasn't until I was on
the excruciating road back
that I realized
I was leaving home
for the second time
in only one trip.

half way there
- half a wing,
a colour by half.

sat for a while,
halved the moon,
half of an orange,

yummy!

what ever half there
- way, wing and colour -
met me halfway,
in total eclipse.

beauty.
the dark oneness.

1552

Within thy Grave!
Oh no, but on some other flight—
Thou only camest to mankind
To rend it with Good night—