A man spoke to me, not my friend, but still
His words were gilded and I listened
And as he raved, his brutal demeanor
Surprised me, and two more voices came.

They had no wings nor halos
Their hands were free of pitchforks,
But they spoke as we have seen, and said,
This This man man is is precious insane.

My head vibrated like the drum they took it for
And my ears cleaved in two
I tried to listen to the man before me
But I was too deep in my own beliefs.

For he seemed bad and good
Fun and frightening
I could not decide where I stood
And the man leapt on me

With one hand he shook mine
With the other he teared at my eyelids
I did not know what to do
For he was acting according to my plan

He left me warm and cold
Unsure of myself
And I slept there
Until I knew what he was

He was the voices
The terrible decision to make
For neither he nor I could decide
If he was a killer or a gem,

For we were both men.

I cut myself on the future
I thought of kissing your picture
I detached myself from
lullabies and sorry eyes
only to realize:

I want to make love to you in November,
just before the empty of December.
Where snow blankets
and suffocating leaf-beds
aren't the only dreams
to fall asleep in our heads.

I could hear your voice trip
as my hands started to drip
around your hips and thighs-
You could tranquilize
with your lips and byes.

You look so sleepy-headed
Many words I have threaded
to weave a dream
desperately
but you prefer my
reality.

the first time, touched
us, otherwise strangers
delving within ourselves
our overt close encounters
past intimate imitations
of love’s labour lost and gained
we collide
again and again
crossing over, crossing under
energies focused at the hip
flowing through & into one another
endlessly
we release
feathers soaked
in each other’s essence

When the days turned to weeks to months and close to years
My feet hurt from the pull of gravity
and my heavy weight bearing down on the soles of my feet.
And there was hunger, but not for food.
But for... Companionship, loyalty,
and a friendly back to scratch.

But that is now just a dream.

As the sky turned grey and the night matured,
I, in my daily death bed, could not help but
wonder what happened to all the built up
Jumping up and down, fidgeting left and right
Shrieks of odd laughter.

That turned into irritation.

I spoke with just  my mouth and wide open heart,
where everything is what I find and feel to be true.
But I did so without the filter of the brain to carve out the
Grime, dust, dirt, and muck that accompanies words.

I regret that truth-- it hurts, it stings, it's my feelings.

Thoughts dance around my head
Counting the sunsets and sunrise
Predicting how many more.

All there is, is kept to myself and my thoughts.

I look forward to when it will finally be mutual
whatever this is, at least.

And to finally be able to open up my mouth, heart, and brain, *where time not a factor.