The small indicators of life;

hidden in the mist,
benevolence—
as seen in the
messy
fingerprints.

Giggles unveiled,
in a momentary glance—
as the glass is fogged,
a smile,
is caught by chance.

A small indicator of life;
minuscule,
if you will,
but even still—
love is found,
in corner-seat windowsills!

He is a fragile man,
who staggers,
lost in lackluster,
he bears a child's dignity—
still stuck in sonder.

He dares to whisper
intimate—
white lies,
to beautiful girls,
with loving,
doe-eyes.

He carries a sad love,
deep,
and chaste,
his curious
pale eyes,
reaped of faith—
as color fades away,
raining regret,
still he wonders why—

"do I lose
every love I've met?"

Let me soothe you,
you gentle—
carnage,
of a shell.

Cocoon you,
and coddle you,
never bid you farewell.

I will wrap silk around your sorrows,
nurturing prosperity,
I will sing you my lullabies
of maternal eternity,
bear you my fertility,
my youth seeping in
scarcity and purity,
all lovingly,
in divine femininity.

Love derived from pain:

I can't help but stare—
my doe eyes
adoring the hunger
in your gaze.

Power so paralyzing,
like predator to prey,
a crave for the chase,
teasing ritualistic dance,
this doe—
stood no chance.

Lips hot as fire;
lust inevitably sparks—
aching, burning,
desire.

Your hands grace my hips,
as you feast on savory seed,
salvation relieved in sin—
a seraphic altar,
of temptation and greed.

Branded in black and blue—
kisses bloomed to bites,
a noose of love is lassoed,
as red stained all,
that was white.

Whispers of prayer,
echoed by pleas,
screams of vain,
harmonized in matrimony.

Love derived from pain;

Like predator to prey,
holiness unravels
a stifled amen,
forever faithful—
kneeled to praise,
as love is derived from pain.

Tears of joy:

Saying goodmorning to two strangers.
On a path you followed—
when you didn't know where else to go.

A path you pondered
your inevitable end.

Profoundly finding love in the breeze,
and purpose in the bird songs.

Seeing grief in the trees,
and loss in the empty benches

Hope calling in the bare winter branches,
and slivers of life—
screaming,
in the slow ponds.

Sighs of relief,
laughter that feels like home.

A pep, in your step!

Saying goodmorning to two strangers;
With truth—
And tears, that felt like joy.

I feel like a tree
has rooted itself
under the foundation of our love,
and it is pushing away our home.

You one time told me that
I only exist because you let me.

That sentence—
It felt like bullets grazing past my skin.
I wasn't shocked, yet—
it still chips at my peace of mind.

If we're speaking in terms of technicality,
that is true—
I only exist because
you,
let me.

I can see your resemblance in the
mountains and valleys
of the pores on my face,
but,

I do not exist completely.

I am faltered.
I am stagnant.
I have been a-strayed,
from my body.

I am atom against atom,
pummeling in the world.

The marks and
linings on my skin—
like bark
on a tree.

The roots are dry,
and the branches sigh in the wind—
the tree is tired

But there's still spikes of green,
decorating the withered branches,
and freckles of pink
begging to blossom.

And if I knew how you loved me so,
I'd let you carve our initials.

I would trade every pound of silver and gold,
if it meant I could relish in you,
even just an ounce of your love,
for I have no greater jewel than your touch.

I would give up every muse in my art,
if it meant I could paint one last memory,
every word frothing at my mouth,
for I have no ink left in this quill.

I would barter every bone in my body,
if it meant I could kneel at your door,
unable to keep myself up,
for I am a shell emptied of all foundation.

I would walk away from the Garden of Eden,
just to spend my mornings under your gaze,
daring to bite the apple from the tree,
for there is no greater loss,
than never having taken the risk at all.

Although I am seen
for beauty and grace—
the soft curve of a smile
and shimmering pearls.

I wonder, do you see my eyes?
How they glisten
at the sight of bare trees—
birds nests strung like ornaments
along winter branches.

Do you read my mind?
Dare to trace the unending delicate threads
of intimate thoughts I spin—
and how I quietly, carefully
weave love.

Can you feel me?  
Do you hear my echos of desire,
pleading to be noticed,
aching to be heard—
my tune yearning to harmonize?

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

A past life—
a spirit reincarnate,
a love tethered,
a body,
caged—
dammed in feathers.

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

Souls tied,
one unearthed,
tears slipping in flight—
a forsaken rebirth.

The altar rests in ruin—
no longer refined in worship.

Knees painted blue,  
sweat reeks of sin,
calloused hands reign regret,
prayers sang in vain.

Guilt masked as pride,
envy veiled as praise,
lust whispered as love,
as purity slips in sage.

But the altar remains forgiving—
of all those who are misled,
for they weep at the stone steps,
of a temple once embedded.

The altar rests in ruin—
no longer refined in worship,
still exuding grace—
accepting all those,
lost, and seeking blind faith.

They say that when you die
Your life flashes before your eyes
I think parts of me die every few days

The suffocating agony
of my childlike innocence
The oblivion and sincerity
of little white lies I told as a child

It all flashes before my eyes every few days

Blurred monochrome memories
Screaming and crying, laughter and joy
Scraping my knees with muddied hands

Siblings watching in silence
for they knew to not speak
As I climbed the ladder of our bunk bed
Trying to escape the unrelenting lashes

Begging God to be let go
Seeking blind faith

It all flashes before my eyes every few days