It seems that I am destined
To love the sound of such leaves
Rustling in the Autumnal memory
Even when another once wished to climb
The very height of my own trees

I am haunted and haunting
Though unconsciously done

When I think of the drive home
I hardly remember a thing.
Just the time
and the wide open space,
the way my heart ached.

The sky was light that day,
which to me seemed appropriate.
My outsides never matched insides.

See, I remember my insides
a tangle of intestines
a wild thrumming heart that beat
and bruised my insides
my insides
inside
You. Could never let me inside.

Outside we were a fissure.
But me—my insides
soaked in sun, drenched in love,
dry to the bone
and your outsides, I—inside
a steel safe just beneath
the skin

When I think of the drive home,
I hardly remember a thing.

As a child
I spent my time
Staring into the void

Mysterious by nature
And Hallowed by name

I wanted to know its secrets
So I sat studying
The endlessness
Laid out before me

Only to realize
It was doing the same

When I rest I sleep like water
Into potting soil newly laid

Into my bed I find myself and fold
Like ironed sheets and cabernet

I dry and dry my desert eyes
On quiet silk
Unwind like coils and fade away

Like the distant colors of a prefixed sun
As its dullest emerald glow
Is slowly polished with grey

Until all that's left is the sleepless ore
Black as opal jewel with organic shine

I am tirelessly writing myself away
On smooth rocks from a vibrant stream

And all I want are mountainsby

clouds and wind spring loaded grass
rolling thunder broiling crass
spoken slander breaking glass
fleeing hatred is gaining mass

life worth living lightning flash
trundle blazing accidental crash
frozen wasted rainbow smash
shattered life like counterfeit cash

blood moon night will never last
steer the ship with splintered mast
script is written drooling cast
well of souls still holding fast

the queen of sorrow all will serve
pulse beat stop the quickened nerve
just ahead see deadman's curve
all is lost with no reserve

broken halo stolen grace
battered heart and swollen face
fiction's fact nowhere place
rapture's heaven leaves no trace

When conversations grow darker than night skies cold. And the tree leaves on the breeze fail to whisper the truth. What happens then, after Summer, so far away from the Springtime of youth? I don't know, but ergo Autumn. And with this quote end. Just as the rocks below look up to the sky above. Marylan spoke my mind in synonym that day, and so I'm through with love.