It's telling looking through
the window’s eyes ; 
a room with a paling grey glass view
befogs the clouds reign inside the storm
Often feeling misbegotten regret
for the unfiltered passing glimpses,
whetstone honed and splayed ;
raw hues of a latent life exposed

There's an uncertain hidden shame
in the unheard truth
starving out in the cold;
dwelling in a petrifying silence
of a common hunger
the lonely do ache
  
Merciless hunger pangs
manifest and shake
with an unrelenting bitter taste ;
loneliness grapples and grips
like a silent earth quake
rattling a rib caged heart — writhing
as Autumn bares the trees
  
A jagged ambiguous fault line
ripples through the hollow echo ;
a bolt of lightning caught in a bottle
strikes — silently contained
swallowing the unspoken words
in a greater good

This broken merry-go-round
keeps turning round and round;
the great mandala spinning on
like a worn out hamster-wheel
without a conscious trace
of going anywhere out there

The place you come from
is gone when you leave it —
even if you really never
feel you were from anywhere
but a thousand unmarked mileposts
from out here somewhere adrift;
a pilgrimage towards understanding
why sometimes I don’t know
if I know who I am — or could have been —
waiting on a threadbare prayer

One-day the winds of change
will shapeshift — bye and bye ...

"When the light that's lost within us
reaches the sky"


Jesse Stillwater

November 2018

I begged you
to unweave me from the confines
of this limited plane
and restitch me into
the richness of your tapestry

Instead you unearth my twisted roots
from the sanctuary of your soil
drain my crimson petals
unmoved as I whither away

I scatter desolation
a marred and stagnant bloom
Your unrequited love is conveyed
through the bitter winds of desertion

Writers are often called 'mental travelers',
finding inspiration in imaginative thought;
They follow dreams to many magical places,
and learn about a life that can't be bought.

A story can develop from different angles,
releasing all the joy and sorrow it holds;
Describing wondrous visions from the heart,
with mindfulness of the pleasures that unfold.

The colors of the soul are on display,
they float along with mystery and intrigue;
We find ourselves wrapped up inside the words,
while they promote our aspirations to achieve.

The true poet creates images which survive,
and carry us into worlds of saving grace;
Each verse begins a journey to the stars,
where eager minds discover their 'special space'.

I would be set on the highest pedestal,
seen and smiled upon by everyone,
but no one would notice when I fall,
I blame no one,
I tend to keep some of my humanity hidden.

I would bleed into my poetry,
drain every ounce until I lie lifeless
but no one would notice the blood,
just the crimson words,
the slur of my handwriting,
but never the intensity of the pain.

I would punish my lungs and scream,
scream until I heave,
until the cry for help becomes more painful than the pain,
but it would all be in vain;
A song listened to,..but never heard.