I looked at her, beautiful and powerful
In the light of the fire and she said
"Leave one wolf alive,
And the sheep are never safe."

-j

Kismat, that was what it was.
Fate.
I left his hands shivering.
I knew we could never see each other again.
As his parents pulled him away from me, like I was tuberculosis.
I remember the one word, he said
"Kismat".
I fought my tears and my desired heart cried like a tired child for that one fond look.
When I love,
I leave no stone unturned.
And as I remember the man who taught me love,
I realize that our love was like the creeping vine which withers when it has nothing to embrace.

Love is the cure,
for your pain will keep giving birth to more pain
until your eyes constantly exhale love
as effortlessly as your body yields its scent.”

Zopiclone is a marvellous
Drug
Take one then get down
Snug
Wake refreshed for another
Day
Keep the gremlins far
Away
The doctor says “You’ll get no
More”
His message now is in
Folklore


Keith Wilson  August 2016

In another land, I could’ve been soft;
I could’ve braided flowers in my hair
and sung lullabies at dusk.
In another land,
I could’ve been mellow,
sweet like a first kiss
and loved by the sun,
blushing from his touch.

Here’s to the girl I could’ve been;
here’s to the nights I wish I were her.

Let the wine spill over the mud,
let us pretend it isn’t blood,
let us pretend we haven’t swallowed the poison
that made our insides rot with desire
for the sky,
perhaps just to see how low we can fall.

In this land I am courageous,
covered in star dust that makes my eyes water.
In this land I hold the bitterness inside,
until it’s boiling.

Let me die a legend,
let me die lost in the land that made me who I am.

I could’ve been soft.
Instead, I am rage.

The cold sun beats
on gold pinstripe pants.
Between the same fingers
that grip a pen
a physical form of smoke;
cancerous, like divisive rhetoric
dictating dialogue between
red and blue threads; white
in the middle turned
a depressed gray.

Stand, stare at
a  stale banner;
salute 50 blank stars,
the right choice
follows like a thief
with forlorn hands for feet.
Dead in the water,
Freedom drowning, shouting
in a salty blue tune.

The sun watches from
its godly golden throne.
Out, uttering among  
waves of stars,
speaking with nothing to say.
Freedom sinks to the
depths of Hell
as if but smoke
trying to make waves.