She is an angel
with the devil inside her.
She has fire within her soul,
and if you
are lucky enough,
to see her dance
beneath the moonlight,
beware,
this is her home.
At this hour of midnight,
beneath the full moon,
she is at her strongest.
As if all the witches
that burned before her,
now stand behind her,
guiding her,
by leaving secrets,
hidden in the constellations,
and written in
the ancient
language of the stars.
She being,
the last of her kind
that can decipher
their meaning.
Watch her
as she dance's
in the moonlight,
and see her ancestors
dance beside her.
She'll spin,
and leave you tranced,
because she knows,
you cannot fight her beauty,
or the magic,
hidden inside her gyspy eyes.

The smell of an old and cheap,
but priceless guitar,
the acrid and dry aftertaste of
beer, lingering
with a sour smell of
ink,
chances missed, and opportunities
lost,
in a mind of memory
where the air grows wet,
and the season
begins its change,
there are times like these
and others
that will be missed and
put upon when similar
elements meet,
the dance consumes our bodies
as our bodies
flay open to deteriorate
and regenerate the lives
after,
and we say,
"Today.
I will live today."

i hung myself
from your lips
the first time
we kissed,
a transcendent
moment, shining
effervescent
as the sun.

love was the rope
i wound into a noose
on that rooftop.
an audience of stars
looked on, voyeurs
lightyears beyond.

years have lapsed since then,
but i return invariably
to those moments we spent
absorbed to the point of ecstasy
as if time were a flat circle
and i was meant to live eternally
caught between the fragments
of those seconds.

fixated by the temporary transgressions
we permit ourselves
every few months.
revolving like a planet
tethered to its star
by the insistent arms of gravity.
we're partners in crime, stealing borrowed time,
trying in vain to recreate
the first fissures
of a friendship
that fractured our lives
like a fragmentation grenade.

consistently,
i become convinced,
as time moves on
and i remain transfixed,
that maybe i was meant to love
but not be loved in return.

Hope
Rises
Like
A
Phoenix
From
  The
Ashes
Of
Shattered
Dreams

She had everything under control
so She thought
This tough as nails-
Lived through hell-
Fought for her soul-
Type of girl.

But,
The grey saw her gloom
Her gloom saw the grey

She couldn't shake it
The brimming,
The stirring,
This Thing,
wielding with intensity on its way
up and up and up.  

The Stomach always feels it's presence first
Coffee, that'll help.
Right?
Get focused, get organized, get all American Dream-ed out.

Up it travels,
No clarity in this coffee.
The Chest is next,
and with it greets Denial.

You silly, ever fruit-less human
Denial FEEDS this.

And so The Heart,
That perfect victim.
Oh,
She's ****** now.

And there it hits,
Stirring her coffee.
the heart that’s so weak
it gave way to the throat,
as if it loves defeat.

Stirring her coffee,
the Throat concedes,
that familiar rock-hard lump.
It's all up to the Eyes now.
Her eyes that see,
strangers and vulnerability  
can for sure **** this thing,
in a coffee shop that stands for corporate greed?

Hers are no ordinary eyes either, you see
for their beauty is what,
made countless men weak.

But her eyes, it proves,
are powerless
once met
with the truth that now screams
as tears, stirring her coffee
at the coffee shop they first met.

--PY