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Nathan A Brock Mar 2021
You are a tequila sunrise
and I take my bourbon
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
These walls are sacred -
here in my solitude,
coating my mind
with toxic glaze,
staring at the void
through smoky haze,
thinking nothing
for the world outside.

My vain sacrifice
come to fruition -
yielding a river
of poisonous slurry;
would leave it's banks
but vision is too blurry
so, hear I sit
holding the oath
I swore to the shadows
of my mind.
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
All is gone!!
Wind, sun,
flowers, trees -
Day and night are one,
and summer is cold as winter.
life has been consumed
in growing flames that give no light.
There is no light.
Darkness has fallen
while i sit alone,
maddened by deafening silence.
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
When you told me you loved me,
I packed your words into a syringe
and injected them into my vein.
They traveled through my blood
into my heart,
my brain,
filling my body with joy;
my senses numb
to the world outside of us.
High on us,
high on your words,
but that high was gone as quickly
as you were.
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
An unwritten poem
is as a beautiful maiden
laying dead  
on a sheet of paper;
a single drop of ink
falls into her veins,
coaxing the first feeble
pulse of her heart.

One more drop,


three -

it's beat strengthens
and she rises,
prepared for her grand ballet;
each prance and twirl
tracing every word,
every line;
choreographing her beautiful tale,
until the last drop of ink is spent,
and she collapses  
into the period at the end
of the final stanza.
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
It is only a rock
floating lifeless
around the earth;

cold and hard,

desolate and bare.

with no fire of its own,
it outshines every star.
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
The sound of whispers
echo endlessly
in the soul
of the ******;
unintelligible words
with toxic silence,
the mind hovering
over the void,
by a single breath
held in nervous anxiety,
awaiting the nudge
of fates hand
-the exhale-
and then,
the slow fall.

Thus is taken the will
from the life ;
thus the seedling
tears it's own roots
from the soil
-leaving itself to wilt
on the asphalt-
it's leaves turned down
hiding their faces
from the sun
they once adored;
the sun they now reject
for setting too often.
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