living foolheartedly,
open and free,
embodying all senses
to make sense of you and me.

Winter has decorum
unlike his sister Spring,
he is slow and ponderous
but she's a giddy thing

Memories sanctified
Can’t lose connection
When reveries tranquilized
Since its inception
Before it was only
Alone in the night
Though enlightened
But frightened
The words I would write
Illustrated
All manner of ways
I had dated
But never this stage
Or this phase
Could seem fated
And still when the seemingly
Meant to be
Blinds me
Its years in the making
Relationships
Guide me
To doesn’t seem
Forced
Or rehearsed,
Inorganic
Just being with one
The without
Starts to panic

Face
Soil
Sun
Gold

Created
Uncreated

Born
Unborn

Free

is it curious that we spare our souls
through poetry,
but remain closed books to our "family"?

a love of mine sang words to me and played them to a sound
a bassline I had never heard, found hard to figure out
he let his fingers freely touch the strings to chords I knew
but dust inside his fingertips kept tracking so much, too

the sound became a muffled thing, a whisper gone awry
and in a tone we couldn’t fight, we had to say goodbye
we put our hands together then we set our bodies free
and now a love who once had been no longer sings to me

no words to describe the mass,
the danger of it all, the hate  that
rises.
the parallel,
the home, the black chair.

power house.
bone house.