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 Oct 2016 Devon Lane
I struggle to say what hasn’t been said
I could go on about her for hours
My sanity was hanging by a thread
And she got inside my minds locked towers

She is more unique than the galaxy
She is more than the name she was given
Her compassion defies all gravity
this beauty, I don’t know where to begin

There are 228 recorded spellings of the name “Unique”

Each is desperate to be unrepeatable, individual, non-conformist, idiosyncratic, original, other.

She didn’t have to try: she was born to be unique.

She is as unique as the name she was given, and the one she has made for herself.

She is beautiful as the words she writes and the ideas she shares with the world

She can make you laugh so hard that you get a weeks worth of 8-minute abs and your face is crimson

She can sing so you forget the world around you as every cell in your body begs to listen to more

When you have lost your way, she will be your tether, keeping you true to yourself

She will remind you every day why out of 7 billion people you will choose her over everyone else because she.

is something else

She will love.

She will love and love and love and love and love and love and she will spread joy with her restless soul because it is too wonderful not to share

She will be herself, and that is more than enough.
 May 2015 Devon Lane
 May 2015 Devon Lane
I saw you today,
... we chatted
exchanged meaningless small talk.
I don't know why
I still get butterflies
       you're too short
           losing your hair
and a little chubby around the middle.
Yet you take my breath away.
      I am lost in your gaze.
          mesmerized by your smile.
Your touch sends chills
     to every nerve ending in my body.
I just want to taste you.
     hold you
         wrap myself around you
for hours on end...
What is Love?
Is it a folly,
Is it mirth, or melancholy?
    Joys above,
Are there many, or not any?
    What is Love?

    If you please,
A most sweet folly!
Full of mirth and melancholy:
    Both of these!
In its sadness worth all gladness,
    If you please!

    Prithee where,
Goes Love a-hiding?
Is he long in his abiding
Can you bind him when you find him;
    Prithee, where?

    With spring days
Love comes and dallies:
Upon the mountains, through the valleys
    Lie Love's ways.
Then he leaves you and deceives you
    In spring days.
 Mar 2015 Devon Lane
T. S. Eliot

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.


The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.


You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.


His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
 Mar 2015 Devon Lane
I used to be your sun
The only star in your day
That burns in the sky
But now I'm your moon
Who watches you over
Quiet in the shadows
Not a star anymore
Just someone you pass by
Because now I'm only
A single part of the night
That fades along with the dark
And no longer the reason
For you to wake up
 Feb 2015 Devon Lane
emily grace
and maybe the rain
is your way of saying
you miss my tears on your pillow
 Jan 2015 Devon Lane
She likes an archaeologist
cos he does it in the dirt

and the older she gets
the more he likes to flirt

She likes the way he smells
in a faded work shirt

hard and lean
but not mean
just a little bit assertive

He still let's her roll
her own cigarettes

and handles her gently
like a gold statuette

while they dance
with the shadows
down low

you know.
r ~ 1/29/15

  |       :)
/ \
 Jan 2015 Devon Lane
The Noose
Some are born balanced
On a precipice and remain
Tethered for the rest of their days
Overlooking barely there
Mental images
Fragments of a lucid dream
Of a conjured up past life
Once etched on skin
But no longer there
They speak of
Violent reinvention
And escape
While the hollow speaks
And catapults into spaces
Better left unknown

Psyches wrapped in denial
Running the gamut of habitual sins
Perpetuating legacies of pain
With hands that carry
The burdens of forefathers
In the twilight of dreams
Willing for the heavens
To send a spring that blooms

Hearts whose pounding
Reverberates endlessly
inside of ears
Eyes that get darker as they close
Meet with ours
A look
A sigh
Ascertaining a mutual recognition
Of the familiar
Shadows that plague.
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