III Jul 9
I'd let myself
     Burn up in every last sunset
If it meant
     I'd become part of the sky.
III Jul 9
What a cruel cycle
     That the cure to
           Suffering
     Is the inevitable shine
           Of beauty.
III Jul 9
Would it be better to say
     We are a conglomerate
Of everything we love,
     Or everyone who
          Loves us?
III Jul 9
Sometimes,
    When I'm grasping
          For something to say,

I lay on my back
And stare carefully
     At the dizzy dance
Of the ceiling fan's motion,

And think of all the other times
      I longed for the sky to
            Crack,
      The ground to shake,
      The leaves to tell me
             Their secrets,

All the times I yearned
For something,
      Anything,
To come crashing in a
      Passionate heat
      Into my life again.
III Jul 9
It feels like
The days pass faster
Than there are sunsets
For me to catch,

Because for so long
    Have I strived
To chase beauty,

But endlessly I seem
    To forget
That perhaps capturing it
Defeats the goal
    Of experiencing it,

So now I find myself
    Like a fly trapped
Between the glass
    And the screen
Of the window to
    Some outside world,

Doomed to burn up
    In my self-generated
Heat, born from the
    Friction of my struggle.
III Jul 9
If I imagine rain
     A downpour dampening
This melancholy mess
Matted and mistaken,
     Strung from strings
Uncertain and chimes
    Brass and scratched,
Headlights screeching
Unforgiving into the swift
    Grasp of dusk
    Over cornfields serenaded
By a cacophony of
     Twitching twigs
     Broken and rattling
Against my ribs beginning to hollow,

If the rain
Could caress my worries
And cauterize my concerns,
I'd wade in the
Static of storm clouds
     And cheer to the
     Clap of atmospheres
          Cracking, crackling
               Chaotic sheets
Of tips and taps,
And oceans down the
     Windows and a song
     Crafted on the roof
That protects me
Unrightfully so,
As I need to be soaked,
I need to wash away
In a flood of bubbling
Rain and splash
     Against the abstraction
     Of these thoughts,
Baking in the sun
Like tea that has only
     Begun to brown.
III Jul 9
I'm still straining
     To see the vibrancy
Of colors painting reality,

But at least I've
     Caught my breath
And found my sound.
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