Fairytales once seemed far away,
things for folks who were fools.
Frog princes, magic kisses, happily-ever-afters
just trifles for filling time.
Resigned to let whimsy fade,
my poems grew dark.
Gloomy art from a gloomy heart.

Once you fell into my life,
a quick kiss, a skipping heart,
the veil was lifted.
Like all fairytales
the darkness was defeated,
magic restored to the land
and the hands of this silly poet
now set to pen brighter things.

My poems swung toward the sun,
and life with you has become
the fairytale,
bound to have a
happily-ever-after.

She’s a dark elf supermodel,
kills werewolves for fun
with daggers, arrows, kicks to the throat.

She’s a dark elf supermodel!
She makes monsters run,
Strikes, poised to run down a foe.

She’s slaying it nightly,                                
She’s badass, she’s art,
My mind is seduced.
She is the only                                          
dark elf of my heart.

Suddenly life seems long,
stretched out.
Scenes I'd long forgotten
display on an internal screen.
Could these memories be mine?
Do they belong to another me,
because they don't feel tangible.
How can it be
that I was that person and ended up me?

People I haven't thought about in a millennia
now dance across my vision,
telling me their secrets,
their heartache and happiness.
Could I be so cruel
as to dismiss the fact that they
live in my actions,
my passions,
that they've produced the man
I see in the mirror?

I don’t mind cruising in the slow lane,
despite this weather, hot and heavy
and not in a good way.
Seeing a torn ear,
blood smear, stitches,
the aftermath of a bad habit eruption,
and the rubble removal,
bit by bit.
A record player, clothing bags,
bits of sadness dusted from the blast.

So the slow lane will do,
the engine doesn’t need the stress,
unnecessary revving,
destination mute.
The trunk and this chest
on their way out
to a cooler place

A desert wind blows hot and dry,
whispering a prayer for rainclouds.
The Milky Way spills across the night sky,
with Saturn and Jupiter shining down,
interstellar eyes
that see the white lizards
skittering in the sand,
and me laying on my back,
gazing up,
swimming in starlit possibility.

The usual travel excitement
is dormant,
put to sleep by somber things.
No bright, floral swim trunks,
no blue-striped tank top,
no flashy ties or eye catching button ups.
Black pants, black socks, black tops,
black-faced watch,
black thoughts.

A sudden loss.

I'm envious of playing cards,
played according to the game,
unashamed for following the rules.
The suites mix seamlessly,
pressed together to make the deck.
When they're drawn up
they're played immediately,
know their fate
when their face meets the light.
Then they lay discarded for awhile,  
before being shuffled up,
and brought back to life.