Feathered woman,
With wings that grew
between shoulder blades,
Point me to the gates,
Forgive my brooding,
The clocks stood still,
One hand pointed me north,
The other set to the south,
So please if I may ask of you,
To lend me your wisdom,
Point me to my destination,
Because time forgot to tell

When you speak aloud,
Fire your words as nameless bullets.
Without a face or destination,
simply burning through the air
in search of a target

On the night before spring,
All the windows were open,
Curtains billowed with february
waiting for the sound of morning
to trap itself inside

When the soil was ready,
we ran across the lawn
searching for salamanders
to catch with cages of fingers,
Gawking at the zoo in our palms
hoping that we too could bathe
in the moonlight and sleep on the stars

All those who fought with silence,
Used their words instead of violence,
Tattooed scriptures upon their thighs
Battled the lows with ballpoint highs,
Burn away the fracture pieces,
Iron on the tainted creases,
This purging was our way of survival,
Poet's own parables a secondhand bible,
This was love, this was hate, this was rage,
This was anything we could confess in midnight haze,
Dream out loud all you silent eyed fiends,
For this was nothing but the fuel of the machine

I write about love,
I write about my mother,
I write about the early years,
The flowers and the valentines,
I write about your smile,
Pretend it is something heaven sent,
That your skin held all my secrets,
and that we asked for nothing in return,
I write if nothing to be honest,
For my pen holds every truth I know,
Remember this when you choose to forget,
For I do not know how