Tyler Matthew

Tyler Matthew Mar 2020

This world spins
like a record
and we are
the needle

Quickwrite

Tyler Matthew Mar 2020

Bones

I dug up your grave
because I missed you,
those nights lying beside you
watching your stomach rise and fall
with each sacred breath you took,
eyes open then shut then open, again.
I took those subtle movements for granted, I did.
Subdued I was by the present.
Now as I kneel at your stone
in the loneliest Spring I can recall,
beneath a pale and faceless moon,
holding your bones,
glancing them in moonlight,
I find they look nothing like you.
There is no warmth that I expected,
no memory coursing through them.
You have moved on from me
so that I may do the same.
Yet, now my heart is scattered
like the bones I kneel beside.

Tyler Matthew Mar 2020

The Hawk

No deception in his yellow eyes -
I admire the hawk, I do -
as talons seize the shrew.

Forthright in his motions,
he takes that which he needs,
to sentiments pays no heed.

For nature is indifferent,
not blind to love or hate.
A course narrow and straight.

Tyler Matthew Mar 2020

Snare

You came to me an angel.
With gleaming eyes, seduced.
Around your head a halo,
now become my noose.

Quickwrite

Tyler Matthew Mar 2020

Life is Always a Circle

Life is always a circle.
From darkness                                      we are born,
eyes wide                                                            with wonder.
The wildness                                                                  in us stirs
as we crawl and                                              walk and then run
down                                                                        the arc,
blind to all                                                                 that comes.
Life is                                                                always a circle.
To darkness                                                         we return,
curious now of                                   what lies ahead,
running, walking,                            crawling blindly
into Death's                               womb,
  closing to a point.

I know, it's not a perfect circle. I've never done a shape poem, **** it.

Tyler Matthew Mar 2020

Untitled

The past is like a leaky faucet:
you always hear the drip,
though you learn to tune it out,
eventually.

Or hire a plumber.

Quickwrite