Knee socks
Lace bra
Satin robe
Matching thong

Hair down
Makeup on
Finger rings
Necklace from my mom

Knitted blanket
Love movies
Hot coffee
Poetry

Would be so much better
If you were here with me.

.

Remember...
The bashful gazes that worked their way into your armour

Remember...
The clumsy saunter that incited your laughter

Remember...
The lips that parted confidently only to reveal child-like stutter

Remember...
The warmth that enveloped your hand as we walked together

Remember...
The winter day's kiss that felt like never-ending summer

Remember...
The day disappointment overwhelmed and doubt grew bolder

Remember...
The inevitable conflicts that resulted in futile banter

Remember...
The embrace when everything fell apart and seemed unclear

Remember...
The whispers that failed to soothe when your pillow got wetter

Remember...
The journey that now seem to not matter

Remember...
My heart as you once did...
As your silhouette drifts away,
everyday much further

I choose to walk on this arid rocky road
I sometimes forget where I belong,
in this haziness of unsettled dust
my heart filled with fear all along

Just round the corner I felt
someone somewhere called me,
I realized the turns I had not dealt
have now become an unavoidable trap.

No, I never feared the uphill
life is a struggle, with honesty by your side,
but sometimes things go against your will
mountains crumble and you don't know how to slide.

I believe that day has come near
when a strange smoke will engulf me
and images will start to become clear
and I will know I have reached the end.

The News is basically that overplayed radio single you hate hearing.
Most of the time, it just annoys.
Most of the time, it just enrages.

Often I awaken
into a world
different than
the one in which
I went to sleep.

It's nothing
dramatic, not

people with
green hair or
cats who speak
fluent Latin or
leaves that fall
upward in autumn.

It's only a
slight difference,
everything just
an inch or so
out of kilter:

like the first
moment of
consciousness
after an acid trip
45 years ago or

the memory of
a girl I should
have kissed,
but didn't or

a slight breeze
from the distant
wings of angels

or especially
like Monet's
endless *******
lily pads
floating at
Giverny

always seen,
but always
different,

simply
challenging
me to notice,

to wake up

to be alive

that most
important thing
of all:

just to
          notice.

  ~mce

Morning breath of Winter upon the naked
Back of Autumn, as they lie side by
Side on the bed of ploughed fields
I admire.

Mist kissed and coloured by turned soil
The age of Earth herself.
I kick frozen, brown leaves from my boots
And look towards

The river.
It'll freeze up at the tips of its longest fingers
Soon, inviting children with ice skates and
Red cheeks to dance and laugh.

Winter turns his mouth towards his
Dying lover's face, and kisses her farewell.
Until next year, my auburn love.
Sleep until Summer's watch is over.

Up here, the seasons are so stark they form
Four shades of adventure.
A land so proudly unholy anyone can
Walk on water.

Up North, by the Russian border,
It gets so cold your breath
Freezes and floats to your
Feet in a fountain of
Sparkling microsmithereens.

Sibirians call it
Whispering Stars.
I swear on my name it's a
Sight beyond description, with

Northern Lights coiling like
Mating snakes
On a sky so full of moon and
Stars it's almost alien

Above you.
Easiest peace.
The sound of Gods
Meditating.

Silence itself opens its
Quiet eyes and looks into yours
Like a living abyss you look down,  
Looking back.

The purest of Existence's
Everythings.
The now cry in
Snow Crystals.

Zen in

Frozen.

Eyes of gods upon my
Every move.

I have nothing to hide. Such
Sweet freedom to

Stand for your every sin and
Uncencored secret.  

Back straight, and perfectly
Human.

How could the mountains
forget
the ground beneath them

or the clouds deny
the sky

we bear this mark
this Galactic conception
and yet
we become fictional

a small etch
of understanding

nonexistent sketch
in the dredge pituitary

a one
dimensional edge
we watch like
a picture
show

existentialist
and it's fiery
seed

shooting it's
burning flames into
the black womb
soon to die
or birth a moon,

the candle is the soul
it is intent
that keeps it lit,

it is our lack of
immaculate
perception
that pulls it apart

Roche's limit
yearning
to string pearls
around heavenly
bodies
as
charisma reaches
to embrace
a burning,
and I see fire.