Push.
Pull.
******.
Bend.
Hit.
Slap.
Tweak.
Touch.
Turn.
Feel.
Slide.
Press.
Stroke.
Hold.
Twist.

It's ok…ah.
You know just what,
I like.

You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.

But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.

When I think of you,
I compare you to the sun.
Bright, beautiful and warm.

But, when you rise,
I want you to set.
Your bright rays,
overwhelming.
Your warmth violent,
it burns my heart.

Our gradient skies are no longer,
filled with our color.
Your wall of light,
pushed me to nights envy.
Now, I am with the scorned moon.

Waiting — sitting — dark eternity,
for a sun to rise again.
A sun that could share,
my sky.

I once fell asleep,
to pleasantries of sound.
As the ribbon slides,
it painted color vibrance.
An emotional luminance, that made,
the soulless whole,
and the blind blissful.

Sleeping to strings,
felt like death.
Not the regretful kind.
It felt as if laying,
in the field,
staring at the bountiful sky,
as seasons pass eternity.

A melody of,
exuberating melancholy,
was infectious.
As if my body,
gave into sickness.
Now its still,
in joyous null.

Let breath subside,
slowing to a faint whisper.
Sink into a nothingness mind,
drain all to slumber.
And listen to Prélude.

Those words,
grow suddenly like thorn weeds.
Without warning,
they spread wide.
Reaching and choking,
reality to death.
It's a chemical reaction,
like chlorophyll to plants.

Blinded by vines,
that are fed by her light.
Thorns of memories,
dig deep until you bleed happiness.

It's perfectly overgrown,
10 years of blissful growth.
How enchanting,
to wither with you.
Sow our seeds,
and live.

We’ve suffered,
intimate drought,
periods of stunted growth,
dark days with no light.
We began to untwine,
then climb to seek a different light.

That day was our garden calamity,
You no longer fed me your light,
Or Nourished my roots.
You uprooted,
you...left...me.

Find your reflection,
in a lake in the west.

I will be here.

Bring music to the deaf,
let it fill your soul.

I will be silent.

Be the light for those in dark,
shine brightly its a gift.

I will be still in darkness.

Ground yourself in towering peaks,
stand firm and strong.

I am ****** in time.

Find love among Aspens,
lay in the leaves.

I will wait,
and lay with regret.

Our glass is full,
it spilled over last year.
Your ropes tied to me,
were cut, so I fall.

In morning, we meet,
But it will different kind.
You will hold the suitcase,
I will hold an empty cup.

Why couldn’t we last the year,
we were breaking at the britches.
You packed your suitcase,
for red rocks and a better life.

I tried to mend the seams.
I tried to fix the table leg.
But my love you’ve wrecked it all.
It wasn’t balanced,
I needed your needle, your strength.

I tried to tell you,
it was about to burst, spill.
I tried to be patient,
and wait.
We pretended.

Who the hell was I?
Who are you?
I loved you.
Our glass is full,
let it fall.
Wash our hands of this.

In morning, we meet,
But it will different kind.
You will hold the suitcase,
I will give you the empty cup.

Fill it with what you need.
Fill it with the love you find.
Fill it with memories.
I will be here,
far behind.

You pushed me,
off course.
Gray fog resentment,
clouds the stars.
Remote and far,
in my own mind sea.
As distant as summer,
in autumns eyes.
I’ve sailed far,
so far I can no longer,
remember your face.

On this day,
of 35 years.
Humbled by,
the cycle of death.
I place my foot,
on sodden wood.
Embracing,
the November wind.
It's cruel and nips,
at my blue fingertips.
There is something,
new and also blue.
That pushed me out,
into the deep cold sleep.

Your eyes.

I was drunk once.
Drunk on love,
drunk on lust.

I was drunk,
warm and full.

You were sober,
cold and empty.

I’m sodden newspaper,
heavy with time.
Mucky layers,
that pull apart in chunks.
Masking detail,
of stories of my soul:
Hymns of love,
transcribed in invisible ink.
Mastheads that yell,
like father did.
Fables of summer in the wood,
when I was a boy.
These are my columns,
my life.

You are a garden,
make the promise,
to feed yourself.
Tend your bed.

Surround yourself,
with fertile nourishment.
Swallow in the rays,
of positive energy.

Know what you are not.  
Eliminate the weeds,
the friends and blood,
stealing what gives you life,
what makes you tick.

Know your companions.
Grow and deepen,
your roots with them.
Share the glorious light.

Open your palms, leaves,
to yourself.
Grow, rise, and promise,

to reach to the sky.

If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
easily, emotionally.