He brought the sun into the sky each day
She brought booming thunder and rain
He shimmered like gold and smelled of wine
She coward in the corner, shrouded in pain
He prayed his light would be enough
to wash her face of the grimace of disdain
Her hero in armor
Upon her, golden wings does he ordain

The clouds fall away
His glow burning like a fire
Her resistance fading, fear dissipating
His voice carries her higher

When the sun and the storm intertwine
it's as if you're seeing the face of the divine

Hallowed bones cracked in the fireplace,
Predicting the sorrow of this hollow home.
The frayed ends of the ancient windchime,
With one bell still glistening on the rotted porch.
The kitchen smells of anger and clove oil;
The cast iron *** has boiled itself dry,
While the kettle screams on the stove.
Hands cracked and bruised,
Pulling back the tattered bed covers,
Dusting off yesterday's woes to make room for today.
Make snow angels out of the drywall from the ceiling.
Pipes rattle in the walls,
Announcing your midnight thirst.
Awake before dawn to get a bath first—
The only surety is the warmth of the water.
Dressed in the clothing of those much older,
Threadbare, feeling the cold before opening the door.
Worn boots crunching in the fresh snow;
Just a glance back,
Looking at home.

Can one be hopeful without being a liar?
That line is as thin as the silk of a spider
Hope left glistening, like a drop of morning dew
Praying that the thread won't break too soon
Would a fly in the web find sunrise beautiful, too?

The laundry needs done.
And I'm in my bed.
Laying, sobbing, and mourning;
A life that will not come to pass.
Despising a body born more than imperfect.
Preparing to force a certain brightness to the surface.
Questioning, what else can be done?
The laundry.
The laundry needs done.

What a noble thing it is,
to leave a blossoming flower to bloom—
maybe plucking a leaf or two
to give growing petals precious room.

As you stroll past the blooms each day,
you encourage their budding hues.
Their fragrance greets you,
hugging you in their delicate perfume.

Soon a familiar chill meets you;
and a familiar grief settles within you.
As the blossoms wilt,
your steps grow slower,
hoping to cling to just a moment of color.

Soon to be surrounded
by Death and Decay,
even if only for a while—
Pondering an earthly truth,
as true as the birds sing:
Nobody gets to keep
a beautiful thing.

I wake to fairy bells and even breathing beside me.
The sun looks groggy, and steal its face as I rinse my own.
Quiet tiptoes pirouette through the kitchen,
silent hands pack lunch in glass boxes.
With three kisses goodbye, and the twist of a lock,
I spend the day in this little box.
I have the freedom to do anything in this luxurious cage.
Whatever my heart desires
is at my fingertips.
Fingertips move with a technical grace,
finding the image in the wood to trace.
Sitting at a laptop, typing away,
hoping to feel pride of the self one day.
The sun sits high and now so am I;
as I bake breads and cookies at 375.
I’ve cleaned up Hot Wheels nine times today,
but they're all out again,
as I watch the boys play.
Evening comes, and love comes home.
Dinner and a movie, a nightly routine.
A few hours with my brother
is better for us both than it seems.
The stars lay glistening
as I lay listening
to the thuds in the chest
that I memorized long ago.
A few Hail Marys lull me,
as I hear the next day call me.

I’ve always looked at birds
with the sort of jealousy
that can only be felt
by a creature who’s stuck to the ground.

I’ve clawed at my shoulders,
I’ve left welts on my back.
Still…
There’s no wings to be found

Wishing for bones
that are deft and hollow,
while carrying ones instead
filled with blood and marrow.

No feathers protrude
from beneath this skin.
Just a humanly ache
that the birds cannot borrow.

You cut down the forest, tree by tree
to build another villa.
Cut the heads from each blade of grass
to keep in accordance with regulation.
Cut the thorns from the rosebush
to keep it pretty, defenseless.
Cut down the dandelion
to make it easier to breathe;
once medicine, now just a ****.
Cut the boys’ hair short,
cut the girls’ wings shorter,
to make for the perfect family photo.
Cut the native tongue from the migrant’s mouth
to create cohesion in culture.
Cut the stillness of the night
to make way for off-ramps and neon lights.
Cut your health below expectation
for a paper check, riddled with taxation.
Cut your love close
to save yourself some heartbreak.
Cut that which does not serve,
as long as you continue to serve.
Keep cutting away
and calling it progress.