Chambord recollections,
   exhaling smoky vapors,
wisps of  Madagascar aromatics
midst a French Château dream,
  dipped in honeysuckle reminisces
  of cardamom spice and the pungent
zest of once 'neath a midnight legend

No more will I whisper my pain into storms in the hope that the thunder will hide the sound of breaking.
No more will I wonder at the beauty of death and its promise of release, the monotonous metronome of blood dripping onto tile nor how it would feel to slowly swing, my life ebbing away as my eyes wonder at the stars they create.
No more will I swallow the oblivion prescribed, I will not allow the erosion of my soul any longer, I refuse to become any less than this.
No more will I question my existence  within a monochrome world while all around others glory in rainbow hues.

I alone am the captain of my destiny.

There is beauty here should I choose to see it and I have turned my face away long enough.

I wanted to write your name down in blood
over and over and over
on slabs of gold and stone
but you prefer to be left alone.

I wanted to build a monument of your face
to overlook your land, your tribes, your home
but you prefer to be left alone.

Instead, I wrote your name on lavender sands,
your birth date on the golden change of winds,
my love for you on the sunset over the Indian Ocean.

I wrote everything for you
on places of scatter
and on places of dissolve.

I wanted to leave your mark on the world
but realized the irony in such
because you are already aligned
with the rising sun and setting moon,
you are already an endless cycle of life and death.

Still, I want to write you down in history
but you don't want to leave your mark on the world,
you don't want your coming and going announced.

To leave my mark on the world,
you said,
I would first have to injure it,
disturb the status quo,
but I would rather be left alone.

Dear Sledgehammer Heart,

You are tough as nails,
        and you are also soft as silk.

You are wildflowers
         blossoming in the spring,
         and again in the summer.

You bloom more for yourself,
                                                     than for anyone else.

You are both student and teacher
           with fistfuls of love,
    clenched for those that hurt.

You taught me
         the importance of a good porch:
The Foundation Must Be Solid.
                              A Home can be built anywhere,
as long as the Foundation is Solid.

You taught me to announce myself,
and to be proud of the songs that come out.
                                       (Even when the sounds are sharp,
                     they must be set free somehow, right?)
      
And you taught me
         how to handle a heart
as delicate as mine
     pretends not to be,
                      with soft hands and gentle love

Stones smoothed into little pebbles
at the bottom of a river.

     I can only hope I have learned
               to hold your heart
with the skill and grace of bird wings
And to lift you
                           higher
                                        as you do me.
It is the only way I can think to return
the lightness
                       you gift by existing.

Please remember,
                                My Sledgehammer Man,
             you must simply exist
and the universe is lighter
                 for it.

Icicles hang from the cannons of my love
The bridge was taken , lost , and retaken
Many times before it was blown up

Now ice lays at the bottom ,
my forkless will
Cold rock kisses freeze lips
Brushable embraces hide their warmth

The harsh abandoned illusions
Come cold chested to breathe
Sparrows come reciting Bible verses

They flutter leaving debris
Of fractured nominclatures
Destined not to be

If I fire the cannon's of love
The icicles will shatter
****** to the ground of loud booms

But no one will hear
The shattering of hearts
Nor catch the falling icicles

Still the icicles remain
On the cannons of love
For all time

My lips whisper
upon your bare skin
Across the valleys
they howl with delight
Come embrace me and hold
onto eternity for seconds sake
Moonlight shades your mountains
as I am awed by the sight
Feel the spirit of our breath entwine
with clashing tongues of enrapturement
Oh , heavenly your ******* touch
my tingling skin
I sing with fevered ecstacy

As wars wage within my heart.
I can feel my inner demons
playing my heart strings
like a harp.
A beautiful melody
of self destruction, hatred and fear.
Acoustics are great.
But I'm still waiting
for the choir of Angels
to sing songs
of love and peace.
Someday,
that's a nice thought.

Euphoric Sunday morning,
      fluff blissful, feathery pillows -
         still resonating the
               scent of night
        beyond supernova's
             transcendent certainty,
   whence gods were called
       upon by name,
            reverberating
               over
                   and over
                        again

no law condemns the sovereign heart
nor pulls the puppet strings of love
left lonely, one man is only half
and Lawless is his middle name

soldiers of grace exalt her fate
love's empire undone
damaged hearts like near-dead stars
spit and spark and groan

spit is sweet add ripe revenge
mine is the honey-laden mouth
which drips with sweat of sword-ish tongue
and breathes the breath of lesser men

©Jason Cole