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Chris Lazzaro Mar 10
Do you ever stay up at night staring at that blank page?

The same waxy coat and thin blue lines you've been fixated on since the third grade,

waiting for it to speak to you and show you the way.


Promises of endless possibilities, confined indefinitely
to the bars spread across the parchment cage.

Holding back the strokes of ink and every thought we think,

there is no escaping the script of tomorrow or the words of yesterday.


Aren't you tired of writing in between the lines?

Or fear that you've wasted your time?

If so just remember, not even poetry has rules to its rhyme.
Chris Lazzaro Mar 10
Although life slips away like sand through glass,
I continue to defy death,
for each breath is not yet my last.
Chris Lazzaro Feb 28
Incorrect sometimes
the things we see.
Claws on the
bed room walls,
but branches
in a heavy breeze.
Or a door creek
from a suspected stranger.
Instead a gust of wind
the breath of mother nature.
A house burning
to the ground,
in reality a fireplace,
smoke spouting about.
Disappoint or relief,
in what we see.
So how should
we view the grin
from behind her dripping cheeks?
Chris Lazzaro Feb 28
Faces of plastic, covered in wax, greased with the oils of appeal.

Forever Frozen, rigid and cold, lasting winters of years.

Bearing a smile, shallow and hollow, to gain that other’s ear.

How often we are told, we must avoid, anything that causes us fear.
Chris Lazzaro Feb 28
In the lamp light, before our midnight goodbye,
time has seemed to stop when gazing into her eyes.

Like a film, flashes of light flicker on and off as to reveal
the hidden thoughts only she could know.

Behind the curtain of her curious smile and batting eyelashes,
visions of grand adventures appear on the screen.

Projected on the canvas are unknown places
and characters that dance in the weightless light beam.  

They last but a second, fading back to the place they came,
as if to be just a dream.

In a single blink, our eyes meet once again
and I realize that those visions were not mere projections.

We were the directors, and storytellers, creating the plot line.
In that moment it was clear to me that I saw our future in her eyes
Chris Lazzaro Feb 28
I am the river atop the mountain,
I am the boulders down below.
I am the jagged cliffs above,
I am the fine grains of snow.

I bend along the mountain
those rocks steer my course.
Rushing white river rapids
blaze the trails from thy source.

The mountain face,
sculpted by river sands.
Waves smooth sharp edges,
creator of lakes and land.

Persistence through ashlar and slate,
water rushes down the banks.
Long withheld at the stone gate,
bursting floods make their escape.

From afar, beauty to be bestowed.
Chaotic in all it's necessity.
I am that which must be controlled.
I am the will of adversity.
Chris Lazzaro Feb 20
My yard was always filled with roots
knotted in unconceivable ways,
always stemming back to the pines
from which they came.

The grandest gripping roots
lead to a twenty-five foot red pine
which stood directly next to the
smaller of its kind.

Its arms, always protected
the younger from snow, sleet
and the blistering sun
during the summer months.

But on a distinct fall day,
the pine’s roots began to retreat
back to its feet, slowly slithering away
from where the others lay.

It's branches did the same,
descending down to the trunk,
rapidly wilting, it's caressing hands
no longer kept the promise once took.

That eve, in the bend of a bare branch lean,
necrosis from outside influence,
festering fungi and insects,
bubbled an unexpected illness.

Creeping, crawling, parasitic pressure
cracked bark and tore ramus connections.
Giving way, its once mighty arms,
crashed and smashed falling apart.

No one knew of the metastasized wound,
only that their protector was there
in decent health, in loom of
the discovery of the crude truth.

The passage of time
consumed the pine,
it's contents returned to the ground,
absorbed by its younger kind.

My yard is still tangled in roots,
not a change since the fall day of decay.
The pines continue to grow,
with lessons taught from their mother's bones.
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