the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised

and so the job,
our work,
begins

Where is it
The hand to hold
Why is it
That it has gone cold

You are gone
From your place next to me
You chose it this way
You made it to be

Am I not enough
Feed my anxiety
Is she more for you
Are you less for me

Let’s put an end to this
Before I put an end to me
Wake up
Wake up
From this bad dream

I cover
Your every inch
Of dark skin
With touches tender
Like the darkness
That we've entered.
With windows shuttered
And the lights extinguished
As anticipation rises
For the caress of
Secret places to begin.

I embrace you,
Like the shadows
That raced to
Cover your skin,
I trace your curve
with fingertips and lips.
My piqued interest peaks
As I feel the trembles,
And the radiated heat
That eminates from your core
To the surface that I search
To bring bright an vivid
The image of your visage
to my mind
Just like reading braille.

Four senses left
I'm just like the blind
And so I
Rediscover every line
Every hill and sweet valley
Projected in my mind's eye
While I listen to your neosoul
sighs and prelude moans
Which, by lack of sight
Become magnified...
Til passions melodies end
In sweet cadence of night's
Darkness