Soft streaks of starlight burn,
like the light from
a unicorn’s enchanted horn.
Hopeful dreams
like firecrackers
sizzle, pop,
then fizzle slowly into
a young hearted laughter.
My heart flares there
in the words of a poetess’s
strange world
as I wonder
what wild treasure
such a deep mind
hides for the truest seeker to find.

By Arcassin Burnham


Times that i spent , lies that I've heard,
ain't nothing like this,
purpose in mind , got it from the dirt,
don't know if  I'll have kids,
walking with you, all the way home,
I'm just trying to make it,
lines are being crossed , time is wasting,
got a feel for it,
I just don't need your assist , blocking out my happiness,
cause I'm just saying that your feelings are solid , precipice,
lies , lies , lies,
lies , lies , lies,
I can't help knowing that fact , but the time flies by.

don't need your assist,
really ! this is it?
are we really in the end times or is this it,
where'd your father go?
did your pride take off?
all the friends you know are fake,
gotta shake it off,
serve nothing interracial,
date your own race,
get on your own two feet and get back in the race.

The bologna
is better
with the bitter
butternut bread.

Is there wisdom
to be unraveled
in the words
that she wrote,

perspectives
of a watercolor world
that I did not know,

She wears soft shades
of feathery white
and purple;

A sensual
fantasy
casting a
casual glance
back my way.
An artist’s dream
of strange beauty,

no hair
just more
plumage,

her ornate
tattoos
cause me
to further loose
myself.

An exotic
extra-terrestrial,
a being of
supreme
power
to influence me,

too bad
she does not exist
in reality.

Maybe, she will
visit me
in my dreams.

Two waterways
race
from separate places,
gathering silt,
and soft soil
as they move
towards
a bigger body
of bountiful
water.

One river
of sorrow
spilling
saltwater tears,
coursing
with all of
the pain
carrying
all of the
grief we acquire,

Another
river raging
with wild
undercurrents,
and strange
sediment,
fishy ideas,
wonder,
love,
and hope
that floats.

Two distinct
things
converge
into a different world
making something
better or worse
then their
previous parts.

Strange as dreams,
she rode a wild
broken horned
unicorn.
Until,
side saddled,
she fell
and straddled
empty air.

The horse
was never there
but the air
was as heavy
as a hot iron
and pushed her
deep down
into a mound
of muddy ground.

She swallowed
soft soil
choking in fear.
Until, the
earth became clear.
Gravity pulled her down
tugging her
tightly fitted gown.

She fell through
the center
but was never scalded
or incinerated
by the hot lava.
She fell
until,
gravity began.
to slow her
momentum.
*** end up,
her feet hit
the other side
and pierced it.

On the opposite
end of the earth
tiny men
gave her long legs
a wide berth.

Her feet shifted and swirled
smacking the air violently,
but she could not escape
her upside-down fate

Until, she was
shook awake.

She is a runaway
out of place
with a beautiful
violin case.

A hungry hand holds
the short bow,
not made to hunt
but born to make
more music.

It plays,
drawing back
and letting loose
the vibrating strings.

The flow of sound
solidly pierces
all of those
within hearing distance.

When she was younger
and could not
find her slumber
she sat
on a burnt black stump
practicing
to the point
of satisfaction,
as close to perfection
that she could come.

Till, no one
could find any imperfection.
Now the streets sound
with the melody of her
musical confession,
this deep possession
of poetic fury
in the flurry
of changing cords.

The music soothes
the sick storm
that swarms
her troubled mind.

She plays as passersby’s
pass her fives
or drop dollars and dimes
for her music.

She plays one smile at a time
searching for a sign
but so far all she finds
are silent stares
of the strangers passing there
as she struggles to share
the ballet of her balancing sounds.

We crumble
into the rubble,
collapse into the past.
We cringe when
the fire comes,
but never run
fast enough.

Everyone knows
we are a bunch of
blustering bluffing
posturing buffoons
who cower callously
ignoring our own
broken humanity

The fabric folds
around my fingers
seeking nothing,
which is what
I find,
empty pockets
perused
to amuse myself
and pass the time.