How simple it feels
to let go of the strings
and fall upwards
into
the stars and such things.

How hard it must be
to love with your heart
but fear that your head
will tear it apart.

What name should I call
when I’m all alone?
Whose hands can stretch out
with one pool of hope?

Whose hands can stay clasped
but gentle- devout-
to keep that wet hope
from drip-dripping out?

From running to drought?

Carbon Monoxide is seeping,
it's seeping,
I don't seep, I sink.

I sing,
like the breeze.

I sleep like the sun
in the months
of perpetual rain. I slink
and I hide
from the fire and sage.

And nothing
could stop me
from feeling this way.

I will never be
ensconced in
charming lace
valentine
            hearts
candypink encased
You will not see me
withering away
back of hand
          upon brow
in fainting stance
in a flowing silk dress
swinging on a
           perfect bough
For I am a river
wild and true
sometimes quiet
sometimes
roaring and
             soaring in
shimmering hues:
Blues and greens
mixed with shades
           of earth, of fire
bespeaking emotions
in tones of desire
My river can get messy
can flood over too fast
because my heartstrings
                       get pulled
by the strength of
                        the blast
It can bring up
colored stones
in its undertow
fish and otters
spinning
in voodoo
          overflow

As the colors rise up
in this heated coolness,
                          this deluge
the influx overwhelms me
with a power so huge
and then I need
     some metallics,
flecks of silver and gold
to soothe
passion's piquancy
                when it gets
                   particularly bold
                      Specked within rocks
                    to ground me, keep
               my feet on the soil
             prevent my heart
          from slipping
       down into
     a choking,
         hot oil

Bronze minerals reflect
peaks of sadness,
     searing pain
        from rawness of hurt
          with no one to blame
             Yes, it can be a balm
                         and also a burn
to be so linked
by spirit-threads
to another, in emotions
that churn
just on the brink
but never truly there
to experience the
         fullness of rush
ripe culmination
abundant and lush

and that's when the
river turns
into molten
              lava...
and I must dig
deep under
layers of ancient strata
seeking relief
in coolness of earth
as my spirit
             again undergoes
              a kind of rebirth
For when we
grow to love
strange things
happen, indeed
       In the core of
my essence
you are the root
of my
        seed