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Kris Dec 2017
he was all spirit,
filled the empty space in any room
(the wrinkled creases of any heart)
in which he resided--haunted;
like the subtle scent of frankincense--
permeating; a soft ethereal touch.

he was all silence,
never home to a raised voice or
exasperated shift of ligaments;
and yet with an effortless exhale,
in one fluent motion of air
he was able to catch your lungs.

he was all light,
lured your gaze with a gentle smile--
his warmth embracing you like arms
as subtle, yet irresistibly brilliant, as
a candle flame to a lonely midnight moth.

he was all soul,
without weight, but full of depth;
you could perceive him inwardly,
feel the years of lives lived
collected like treasures in his chest.

he was all there,
even when he no longer was.
Peripherally related to an older poem I wrote entitled, "portrait of a girl without organs."
Kris Oct 2017
The ancient bridge is alight with rage
burning bright like dragon's breath--
fierce, invigorating, brimming in age.

I.
she had been a structure of the primeval kind
wooden bones tied together with tendons of twine
and sweat the subtle scent of forest from pine.

a mother she had been to the lands that relied
on her undying presence throughout bodies of time,
their parted lips looking for a voice in their midst.

yet, it was not soft thanks nor words of praise
but instead scorn that was spat at her from the
toothless mouth whom she would steadily aid.

II.
loveless from the moment of her birth--built by force
hammering nails until they fit (and she bled)
wires strung tense above her, intended to strain.

and yet through it all she kept her balanced grace--
did not falter--not even from the howling remarks
of the de-hearted winds that carved scars through her;

not when the snow seasonally perched on her back,
refused to budge; filling her caves with ice, 'til the sun
melted them like tears, meanwhile searing her skin;

not wavered by the storm of steps--the most agonizing,
this relentless drum-beating, a headache’s throbbing
that never gave her even a heartbeat's rest.

III.
thus the flames became the sole love to taste her
intimate, attentive; the blaze left no part unsavored
they carefully consumed her whole, limb by limb.

first stroking her weary wings until they lowered;
blanketing her shivering legs that always stood firm
but, exposed, had wanted to be covered.

licking delicately the buckling belly that was worn raw;
what rapture! what warmth! a foreign feeling of awe
for it had heretofore only ever known violation as law.

and so at last the foundation creaked, fatigued;
her last breath (one she had been holding for eternity)
erupted as a half-happy cry, for she resolved to release;

the weight of sisyphean struggle collapsed piece by piece
and as the fire consumed her, all pressure was relieved--
for ashes perceive not burden--they are as light as dreams.
Kris Oct 2017
the drifting mist in the hills,
its whispered words still linger
the thought sudden like a shiver–

ceaselessly (certainly) all dissipates,
fades without even a half-breath’s wait.
Kris Sep 2017
"How long must I wade aimlessly in shallow waters–
arms tiring and skin stained from the ineluctable sun–
before I can finally swim in the depths of life?" she asked.

"You must," he said, "find first courage to reach farther than
you have in the past; push past your own peak so that
you may experience something that surpasses yourself."

"I have the courage; it is the ocean I lack," she confided.
"I have only ever been given flat lakes, whose rocky beds
have been as empty and bare as the driest deserts.

Never have I witnessed the tempestuousness of the seas,
delighted in its rolling waves, tasted the salt of its fervent tears;
never felt a drop of warmth from the pulsing blood of its heart."

A moment of pensive consideration and his face grew light
like a plant that has licked up the sweetness of sudden rain.
"Then become the ocean in which to welcome others for a swim."
Kris Sep 2017
I've become an archaeologist of humans--
attempting to uncover the depth buried
in the veiled chests of everyone I meet.

~~~

patience is my preferred tool,
I dig delicately, letting them decide
when they want to be explored;

I let the packed dirt feel at ease
until it loosens up and becomes
soft soil ready for gentle unearthing.

~~~

but not every excavation leads to success,
not every ribcage contains the treasures
we mistakenly assume lay hidden there;

sometimes we must accept emptiness,
concede to the truth that our attempts
at finding character concealed are in vain.

~~~

it is the hardest lesson -- that our search
can sometimes lead to nothing more than
hands raw and calloused from the digging

and a shallow hole in which to bury
the frustrated hope for human connection
that was driving the desperate hands.
Kris Aug 2017
there exists tenderness in this world;

but calloused hands are afraid to touch.
Kris Aug 2017
Emotions only make sense
in the moment.

And mine; mine are
always muted.
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