I am
shaken.
I'm sorry.
I really am this time
even if I don't believe it myself.
I know I have to be. How couldn't I be?
I look in your eyes and see so much misery.
I just want to undo it; want to undo myself again.
There is no easy way for me.
Bound am I to wander and return.
Like an orbiting moon,
Lost in the ethereal like a sailor destitute.
I paint my own with two brushes
I reach for one that is dark
I reach for one that is light, and then
I fall for the mixture of it's composition
So real, like the contrasting brilliance of stars at night.
It is lost; this way we dance between the lines.
In the the dusk of our own confusion.
In the forming of our minds.
I am in need of your spring.
In need of your dear warmth.
A newness like
no other.

French pressed fun a with french kissed tea?
With tell-tale signs of want, on me?
You should have a
dactyl mackerel
for breakfast. It'll clear out your eyes
so that
you can vom'et
In my face before you finish speaking.

I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.

I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.

Unlike the rest they’re in the among the dust
to mute the way pictures often drip with silence.
In that unseen spot my eyes will never trust;
so often burned with red remembrance.

A picture worth a thousand words is true.
In so many ways the thing may come to light;
so bleak, the words are left with what they knew.
Without the seeing I still shall find the sight.

I do not look for comfort’s sake; comfort it doesn't bring.
Perhaps it is but my mistake, I hear the shadows sing.

Such things I should denounce, dismiss.
I hear the sound of trees that do not fall
to death, and with the ground they do not kiss,
and I find absence here: nowhere at all.

A pearly luminosity, and five endless lines live in perfect functionality,
but make the picture of a signpost hold the dust of dim-lit destiny.
It seems to have nothing in the day,
and only once night has come does the charm of this
common intersection show its color.
Grace in form and abundance in solidarity.

I walk across the moon in bare feet.
I stand looking at its beauty in the street.
The days go by, the winds, they change,
and part of me is yet estranged,
but still gleaming on is that lamppost;
Never to want or to die.
Never tasting joy, nor ever inclined to cry.

The pavement goes forth in solemn, straight lines,
like the unquenchable flow of space, and of time.
but just for one moment I see a face in the night.
It calls out my window and beacons with light.

Right right right they stand, save Catherine,
on the left. She’s set herself apart;
unyielding to command.
Nowhere else has a lamp-post been such a lady.

The Moon shines on in my eyes.
The air is cold and crisp on the face.
The luminescent pale face overcomes all disguise.
Three circles affection; forms for to trace.

My muse is made perfect for such a moment
and my saunter slows to a stand, still stopped.
Bathed in the dark light; so pure is my atonement.
Yet the height of my desire has not dropped.

The depth has deepened, and the width has widened
to encase such a pure celestial sphere.
My soul has cast a requisite to be enlightened,
While yet derived and bereft with fear.

The face I loved is gone, and the nighttime clings so tight.
My moon, which is blue, has stolen my gaze... again,
to give a new face for me; the visage of night.
When the morning shall come I cannot tell. I know not when.

Yet in the turpentine of my misdirection it's best to stop and stair.
for where the wind blows, only the wanderer will care.
All of life is a circle, flawless yet unfair.