I can clearly see the anger in your eyes,
hear it loudly in your voice,
taste it strongly in your bitterness,
feel it immensely in your actions,
sense it definitely in your disposition,
and I don't even know you,

now that’s power

In lyrical fashion they fall of this gypsy soul
rehearsed longings, song-like reminders
Days long of time in the mind of a charmer,
memories threaded, stitched of fears
Aching endeavors form each step of the procession
slowly along the sorted byways of life,
aged in moments of eternal passing
Crooked lines predict faultless failures,
staggered footprints hide from the light,
cloaked in brocade emotions
on a winding trail of the forgotten
Stained in petrified tears
the sorrowed breadcrumbs are scattered
never to die, again

the world is your oyster
take the pearl
and I’ll just lie here in the sand
an empty shell
once again

This place is toxic,
it carries a weight
that will fall in the corner
with hearts listed fragile
and feelings agape
Swallowing reason
in populist pander
Singing the praises
which bark at the moon
Touching the skin
of a lonely world traveler
Jogging the distance
in words repeated

Beware of the smiles,
the frowns and the teardrops
gathered from distant borders
Taking the spirit
along on the breezes
Casting it forth
in a starless night
with biting fireflies,
electric stingers
glowing for even
the farthest of eyes
hoping only for happiness

Take caution when
spilling emotions,
painting vistas
in cranberry sighs
for blooming gardens
don’t always offer fragrance
in its most appealing form
Thorny revisions hurt,
trickling blood on the stone
A craggy thought
which will never
be a turnip

Tread lightly where matters
of love matter
For like the magical tablecloth,
not only the silverware
and fine china
will be left sitting alone,
but so will you,
empty, unfulfilled
watching the white cotton
disappear,
yanked from your existence

This place is toxic
poetic poison drips, drips, drips
Intravenous contagions
transferred from one to the other
Building fires and fever,
blazing flesh from bone,
killing inspiration
till it is nothing more than
a pile of ash
waiting to be sifted through