impatience never teaches
it is a mind trap like fear and self pity
The star attached to the back of my head
says trust, have courage, have faith
mostly that star speaks of Love
only Love

You are singing silence out in the yard,
the newly empty nest hanging overhead,
like cliché clouds of grey, foreboding so.
Twee words feather dust the ironclad guard
with your feelings locked in its bear trap jaws,
hold them long enough and they will starve.

Stoicism has its cost.

Oh Ghost bird, how can I fix what is wrong
if the tune is subdued? Sing it slow.
Let the words bend at the edges,
allow your voice to crack and crow.
There is beauty in its breaking,
a love in the nakedness of it all.

...

Muted light shown though like saltwater
spraying through holes in the canopy’s hull,
kissing your eyelids with a warm familiar glow.
Twisting paths of gnarly branches pass
towards either dark clouds or blue skies
and you are drowning under all its mass.

Confusion has its cost.

Oh Ghost bird, how can I fix what is wrong
if the tune is subdued? Sing it slow.
Let the words bend at the edges,
allow your voice to crack and crow.
There is beauty in its breaking,
a love in the nakedness of it all.

...

I meet you underneath the dogwood tree,
arms around arms, my forehead against yours
the rain now falling ever so softly under the sun.
I am pleading, let go the injured doe, yelping there
in the grasp of your iron bite and in the daylight
let go of what holds you in the dark of night.

Romance has its cost.

Oh Ghost bird, how can you fix what is wrong
if the tune is subdued? I’ll sing it slow.
Let the words bend at the edges,
allow my voice to crack and crow.
There is beauty in its breaking,
a love in the nakedness of it all.

All that once was
is now but a dream
life changes its colours
with its unpredictable scheme

we drift on unnoticed
in its mysterious stream
in our distant reverie
how unreal all things seem

In the black spheres of another’s cavernous
eyes I lost myself amidst the seep of my own
light patterned into strange foreign orbs

drinking heavily of I
am borne on the winds of imagined hands
sculpting me awake. where I can dream-in
the voids between lust, where the nothing
seems happy, the night is my friend

in the convex meniscus of another’s iris
perhaps I can dream of rebirth in the titrating
wound in the womb of lust

makes my eyes search the ether. In the
womb of my lust there is wind in my wings.
In the womb of my lust there is more

to be found. to be woken into equilibrium
perhaps I must abandon the forked tongue
of independence, so that fanged loneliness

can die of happiness. the snake becomes
a docile bird when fed. the castle of self
becomes a womb in the kingdom
of entwined, sleeping hands. we are born

many.

what's the sense in reminiscing
being the one that's left behind
when all your friends go missing
by way the art of dying

when you reach the fold of much too old
to want to carry on
if truth be known out loud was told
all your friends are gone

what's the sense in reminiscing
if all you do is cry
no need to waste time guessing
when you know the reason why

when the world moves into season
where all it knows is cold
in its quest best be believing
that you're the next to go

what's the sense in reminiscing
if all you have are last goodbyes
trying to keep the secret hidden
that death is a part of life

you find this section hard to row
being the last one in the boat
what's the sense in reminiscing
when you can barely stay afloat

I will retaliate with his mouth,
and you will become what you have made
me.
-- you leave me to stagnate;
talking myself in and out of love, I
forget the curvature, and allure of your body,
and the parts of me that fit in it
starve.

-- call it neutrality, abandonment,
or an "inability to live within" yourself -
call it your serotonin's-seppuku, or
the fact you are inconsiderate;

call it out, like you did in your sleep: "I love
you;"
I do not.

i keep the ink in my pen flowing
and my eyes on my inspiration

and whether this is weakness
or hope or strength or delusion

my imagination has proved to be
just as strong as my depression

so if my mind has sentenced me to death
life will have to be my own creation

22.07.20