It's the unlocking of a heavy door,
To a past that is long dead;
The dead thump of a dropping heart,
The cold of an empty bed.
The slides and glides of cello strings,
That linger in the dark-
A shadow of a stolen kiss,
That has forever left its mark.
Those empty nights that sat draped in darkness,
Spent listening to the rain;
Cold and crying for hollow want,
Watching the sun die over and over again.
The cold of your fingers on the nape of my neck,
Salty waves dying on the shore;
Chapped lips left half-parted,
"I can't do this anymore."

Crusty edged, picture perfect,
Skies that left me broken hearted;
sun kissed skin and star lit eyes,
Wishing you had never started.
A familiar voice you thought you'd forgotten,
the missing harmony of an old song;
The acid that drips deep inside
When you realize you were wrong.
The leaks of honey on your chin,
The end of something good;
It's the guilty pleasure in midst of the pain
Of a sin you never should.
The words you never really meant,
Lay sweet, savoured, spent.
All you heart weighed in gold,
The dying breath of stories never told.

Whispered seductions calling out,
Begging you to close your eyes-
Unclench, exhale, surrender fast;
Release and say goodbye.

the town air is still more insipid than I remember
the decaying laid to rest in ranch homes and townhouses
and more recently underground

the cold, dry and tasteless, leeches life from the bones
for the slowing heart of these abandoned streets

where families, unaware, come to their slaughter
cloven by the allure of death
hanging in the wind

the husks of the trapped wander
and masquerade the bar stool seats
of have-nots, should-have-beens, and glory days of yesteryear

and all i can do is shake the black powder from my shoes
for this stop on my travels
this shadow of a city
i've no reason to return

Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes
That beauty which without door lies,
Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so
I might not all thy pleasures know,
Yet,  thou within thy gate
Art of thyself so delicate,
So full of native sweets, that bless
Thy roof with inward happiness,
As neither from nor to thy store
Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.
The cold and frozen air had starv’d
Much poor, if not by thee preserv’d,
Whose prayers have made thy table blest
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did afford
Coarse cates unto thy neighbors’ board,
Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky
Had only been thy volary;
Or else the birds, fearing the snow
Might to another Deluge grow,
The pheasant, partridge, and the lark
Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
The willing ox of himself came
Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,
And every beast did thither bring
Himself, to be an offering.
The scaly herd more pleasure took,
Bath’d in thy dish, than in the brook;
Water, earth, air, did all conspire
To pay their tributes to thy fire,
Whose cherishing flames themselves divide
Through every room, where they deride
The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,
Like suns within, keep endless day.
Those cheerful beams send forth their light
To all that wander in the night,
And seem to beckon from aloof
The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
Where if, refresh’d, he will away,
He’s faily welcome; or if stay,
Far more; which he shall hearty find
Both from the master and the hind.
The stranger’s welcome each man there
Stamp’d on his cheerful brow doth wear,
Nor doth this welcome or his cheer
Grow less ‘cause he stays longer here;
There’s none observes, much less repines,
How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no porter at the door
T’examine or keep back the poor;
Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been
Made only to let strangers in;
Untaught to shut, they do not fear
To stand wide open all the year,
Careless who enters, for they know
Thou never didst deserve a foe;
And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such,
They cannot steal, thou giv’st so much.

(This one is rough, wanted to try and write a poem tonight in one sitting.)

the unexamined life
is not worth
texting. Stop selling
your inadequacy, instagraming
packaged, processed, stylized
banality, like a ******
miming painting
to the long pedestrian
line at the Louvre.