It's weird. . .

The way humans shame those who can and do feel more deeply than them,

For having a more intensely experienced reality,

Just because they can't see it, hear it, feel it, then it must be

That we are just over-dramatic, that we are "making it up" . . .

Right?

But really, who's fault is it that you're still dead inside?

From the day of birth
you may live to a hundred-plus
become the rustic
trust the anvil negate hate
all that time you were dying

the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage

to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.

february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.

we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.

I'm in a room without recovery area:
a room of intermission, a room
of collapse. Where are
the convenient little windows
to release a wicked bird of thought?
The quiet there is monk-like,
rogue, and slightly unpleasant, guilty
of moments spent with shadow.

I want to build a clock
that ticks once a year
—more dark than shark,

my confessional capacity
—time-stretched,
like the heavy intoxicated *******
of the witching hour. And I'll
make soup from the leftover prayers
of the day before, all in hopes
the rooms of me, then so clear,
will one day be faraway suns
in the temple of heaven.

One frigid day
when I was finally feeling warm
on this side of the dreaded Capricorn..
I invoked the paintbrush of manifest
painting the skies blue from east to west…
Taking the hammer of eternal unknowns  
I chipped away the cold winds blown…
Pick axed the frozen bergs distractions
salted my path for better traction..
Let the spring come early this year!