The dark white winter brings
Spring’s horrible creeping scenes
of corpses hanging lifeless
from redwood trees
in the early fifties.

Secrets once whispered
by family members
of the victims,
and celebrated
by the magistrates
that perpetuated hate
to seal the fates
of innocent
human beings.

How these
rag dolls hung
dripping soft drops
of crimson stillness.
Heads tilting
in terrifying positions,
with no physicians
coming in
to rescue them.

Such strange fruit
not yet ripened,
swollen
with the growing
gas that was bloating.
Until, bowls evacuated.

Soul singers spoke
of such tragedies
but who heard
their heart’s beating verbs
that broke against
a shore of stupidity,
and arrogance,

and who will listen
to the same insistence
as more people join
the resistance
to fight against
a new age of injustices.

Sometime before
or during the war
there were fields
of horrors
with concrete stacks
smoking back
sick choking ash.

If your children
ever ask
are these
terrible things
just a purview
of our past,
do not lie.

Because, we let
children die
right here
in school shootings,
and despite
our country’s wealth
we let them starve
somewhere else,
whilst the military
fat cats
get rich
of the scorched backs
of burnt out bomb
victims.

Life eviscerated,
scars in hearts,
parts that can never be amputated.
As the infection grows
everyone knows
that it can never
happen again.

Until, it does.

The drums of death
keep rolling in
followed by
the lightning kin.

Chaos reigns
where demons sing
of signs
that portend
the pretend
end.

The storyteller
tells us so.
So, we find a way
to go
along
a merry path
of destruction
that lays us low.

The bribes that brought
the lies they taught
to keep us all in line,

is it love
that make fools of us,
or is it fear
that makes us blind.

The green light lit
a pool of dog ****,
as I barely missed
stepping in it,
but managed to hit
a puddle of human ****.

Still, this is better then
the messes I’ve been
stepping in
my entire life;

Belt, boot, broom handle,
righteous salvation
in the distorted visage
of a vicious parent.

Locker collisions
as schoolbooks were driven
from hands to the floor,
cruelty that dulls with
time and distance.

Packaged pill urges,
dull knife intentions,
barefoot winter behavior,
death, the hopeful savoir
who never flew in
to save me.

Teeth grating
I have been hating
everything I ever was
because,

because,

because…

I can’t tell you why
cause now
I don’t feel like
the bad guy
who deserves to die.

My heart is
a hungry beast
beating,
and growling
for something,
needing feeding
of primal desires.

It is white shredded bits
of paper
preparing
for the taring
and sharing
of ash
as it burns fast,
consumed
by the embers
that rise
to fires in the eyes
of those
we long to touch.

When I awake
and quake
the tremors
of ecstasy
seeing my sweet fantasy
coming to life
the beast’s
urgency
slowly recedes
and I am free
to be
a rational me.

Until,
the hunger returns
for the next in line
of eternal
sequels.

Who am I?
Just a husk
that has a name,
just a moving body
that claims
some sort of
superior
consciousness.

Who am I?
All flesh and stardust
particles that
become all of us
susceptible
to the inevitable
when my flesh
will cease to mend.
Am I my mortality?

Is this body made
of American skin,
made from some
specific region
that denotes
the value
of my existence.

I remember this
fleshy prison
full of emotions
that I have been
caged in
even when I am
constantly changing.

Who am I?
A puppet on strings
who dreams
of one day being
a real human being,
or at least
a reasonable
facsimile thereof.

Who am I
but a product
of every previous
generation,
a foundation
fitted with
the artistic
endeavors
of the clever.

Who am I?
but a single
ballerina
twirling
on a spinning rock
wondering
which will stop
and drop first.

Who am I?
But a finger
that points towards
heaven's dream
smiling at
sharp clouds that
pierce
the day lit sky.

Who am I?

What a shame
the people exclaim,

seeing sorrow
float up in smoke
as people in pain
just swim away.

With each
heart ache,
love break,
or big mistake

people take
a step in
the wrong direction
burning bridges
and building trenches
with a wall in the back
as they fight a war
and never come back.

Each day,
puts them miles away
from safety.
Till, all hope is gone
Till, even the brightest
right becomes wrong,
and the man
in the mirror
becomes a
bearded stranger.

I missed this,
magic instance
that happened
when I finally noticed
my heart was breaking
in tiny increments.

Tears tare
at time’s restraints,
making moments
of minor pain
seam epic
whilst
major sorrows
become speckles
in the distance.

I am disconnected,
disturbed
by this disjointed
society
that does not share
the same values
as me.

Humanity could be
lovers of poetry
and science
but instead
it chooses
greed and violence.

I am lonely,
left longing
for a companion
but unwilling to venture forth
into the storm
because life has informed me
that despite reports to contrary
I really don’t matter.

What a wonderful sight to see
as the highway horizon
rushes up to greet me
at about seventy-three
miles per hour;

The emerald shimmering
wind swept ascending
green grass bending in
the sweet summer winds.

What a wonderful feel
to roll up that hill
parking on the side of
the on ramp,
letting the breeze
and vitamin d creating
light rays envelope me
as other drivers fly by
missing this
wonderful
afternoon sky.

If I could
I would waste the whole day
watching the grass
sway away
like a green glowing wave
that keeps growing each day
while we both absorb
those life enhancing
solar rays.

She is a small brush fire,
a lifetime set ablaze
reddening skin
melting and swirling
in outrageous agony
as she contorts herself
to accommodate everyone.

Unsettled and unpredictable
constantly turning
the tables on herself,
one minute she is
dancing in a tapestry
of manic happiness,
then in the next
she is obsessed
existing in a heightened state  
of anxiety and sadness.

The bright lights illuminate
brilliant displays
of personal pain
that explode on the stage
as she reads her
tragic truths
in poetic verse.

So, she plays with
more matches
spreading the flame
by sharing her pain
till everyone else
burns the same.

Bubbles blow up
dancing in
cold shadows
as multi colored
oil spirals
circle
inside those
soapy dreams.

Fireflies
lite up
late nights
while flint rocks
make shocking sparks.

I sit on
the rough rooftop
looking up
into the dark
infinite,
that same space
that shared
those strange moments.

These thoughts
are carried long distances
between
those strange instances,
a pleasant past
of playful moments
that never lasts,
but blast pass
all those broken
memories.

Despair is fear
that no one cares
and that
your life
won't be a mad cap comedy
or happy ending tv series,
but just an endless state of
existing unloved.

It is a pillowcase
wetted with
saltwater
and snot
to top
it off.

It is breaths
that cannot be
caught
as sobs steal
the air you wish
to fill your
lungs with.

It is the anxiety
and voices that
say you will hurt
the ones you love
and the only action
that is good enough
to protect them
is you dying.

It is a certain suffering blindness
where a pleasant future
does not exist
and only pain persists
in all future events.

Evening waking
walking worker,

is up in time
to see the sun's
sweet decline.

Then back in
just before
the sun can
start shining
again.

Backpack
hanging tightly
as he moves
around the town
nightly,
quietly
enjoying
the silence.

Though,
once in a while
the shadows fall,
the smile
breaks
as tears take
center stage.

Heavy feet
drag the streets,
with music to keep
all those pains away
until he falls asleep.

Playful,
friendly,
and polite

the walker
walks himself
straight away
from the light
into
the endless night
alone
and unsatisfied.

Things change.
Even if you like them
and wish they’d remain
the same,
life tends to exchange
the known factors
for new actors.

As familiar faces fade
from old age
preparing to decay
strangers stray
your way.

You may think
what you have is great
but when there comes an end
something beautiful
can rise from within.

Some sick or shimmering
circumstances
can take your sorrow
and direct it towards
a more fruitful tomorrow.

We are
putrid flesh stained with
crimson pools that fall
as we drain it all.

We are fate’s fallen foe,
fragile beings
finally seen
as sparkling truths
that become
angelic paintings.

We are floating feathers
that mingle with
soft pink petals,
forming a new nest
were we can burn
and be reborn
from our old ashes.

If any stranger asks us,
we are walking frames
of fractured madness
little glass figurines
that fall between
the cracks that we have
never ever even seen
and cut other
soft bleeding things.

I am fascinated
by fake faces
that implore us
with false sentiment
to invest in their
criminal intent.

I am intrigued
how these
proud businessmen
can convince
other humans
that the highest
achievement
is to show
what you are
consuming,

that removing
empathy
in favor of greed
is the way
to finally proceed
to the next state
of financial security
which will make
us great.

I was there
when you
came home
for the first time,
little preemie
wonderful baby
brother of mine.

You were the cutest
thing I’d ever seen
growing up
too quickly.

There were late
game nights
with pizza delights
and silly sleep overs

But as we got older
I got a little colder
and for a while
I kept my heart
and my smiles
several miles
apart.

With the years
that went whizzing on
I look back now
and cry
for all that lost time.

I may have been gone
for a long stretch
walking a path
and trying to find
something better
then the bitter
past I left behind.

The roads may rumble
with lightning
that becomes thunder
and the earth may quake
as I recall the old days
when we would stay up late
to laugh and play.

The lines I write
may be very cliché
but this is just something
I have to say.

Man, little brother
I still really love ya.

Oh, how the fools fell
for the sweet tender
Izabell.

Where once
they would have guarded
themselves,
like steel locks
designed to block
rare intruders
who dare go
anywhere
near there.

Now they open doors
gleefully hoping
she will see
and enter gingerly
for love's gentle reprieve.

Those young men
come bumbling in
ready to submit
to whatever role
she wishes them
to fit in.

I watch each young gun
become a heartbroken ***.

I have my fun
but run before
she sees me
because she could break me
just as easily.

Come again, my troubled kin,
with tender skin
flushed and bruising
from the world's abusing
and familiar’s misusing
that is so dammed confusing.

Come again, please repeat
the pulsing fury
of rapid heartbeats.
I need to hear something living
to sustain the meager hope
that I have been given.

Come again, please wait
no need to rush
there is no fate
in store for us,
so, let's dally
in children's folly
following the playful fancies
that humans need
to maintain their sanity.

And so, I cry
please come again
to heal this heart broken
by my dearly departed friend.

It waits and baits us
with fear and pain
spraining our already
sore souls
and struggling brains.

The dark eclipse
that does not miss
this foolish *******.

Where more time
is spent in
then we had existing.

It leaves us hollow,
a brand that burns
our throats with sorrow
cause that brass fact
is hard to swallow.

It does not give
a single whiff
if we try to deny it,
and there is no way
to bribe it.

It cares not for
the quality of our character
that maybe
reflected in
our charity
directed towards
our human kin.

But without life
it cannot exist,
this deeply distasteful
state of nothingness.

Their mind is like
lazy writing
that put god’s in charge
of water and lightning,

made men weak
and put that pantheon up
to wreak
havoc
when they would speak,
moving massive mountains
with wild vibrations
leaving nations facing
fictional devastation.

Creation stories,
though neat,
are kind of boring
compared to
what we have uncovered
in our scientific exploring.

This knowledge is better than
the daytime talk show’s host settling
for some secret power
that allowed to her
to whisper success
out into the world.
She claims that we get what we put in,
that all results are manifest
of our good intent.
So, any bad that happens
to us or them
was our fault.

Like crazy gods
and flat earth creationist
a flock of fools follow this
big pile of dog ****.

By their logic
any suffering child earned it
with poor thought intent.
This fairytale ****
has got to stop.
The secret is
for every event
there is an actual cause,
not some abstract energy
that moves in-between
the cosmic scene,
but a series of actual things
that transpire
in a measurable pattern.

Do you ever wonder why
there is a severely short supply
of truly nice guys?

I can’t believe
that you are surprised,
how you cry
about the jerks that
cheat and lie.

There was a gentleman,
a considerate human being,
who was genuinely caring,

but he learned his lesson well,
stopped daydreaming
and caring,
stopped despairing,
stopped showing up
to hear about your bad luck
with the dumb ****
dump truck
of abuse,
that you kept defending
and running back to.

The young one
who had so many
loved ones
run from
him
straight into the arms
of dangerous men
has taken all his
romantic notions and trust
and departed
with an angry and broken heart.

That is where the nice guys
have all gone.

Perhaps,
I held to many
expectations.

Is it right
to expect
a mother
to have patience,

To not lash out,
to truly think about
the hearts of
their child’s aspirations.

These are my specters
visitations
of previous incarnations
of pain.

Perhaps,
I should not
hold high
the standard
of acceptance
and appreciation.

That was not her job.
She did do her job,
maybe not
as the perfect
maternal figure,
but she was a provider,

Perhaps,
that is all
that I can truly ask of her,
my mother.

You come to me
from miles away,
with tears and congestion
interrupting our
our cellphone connection.

You open the line
with your confession,
expecting me to consecrate
the mistakes you commemorate
as we spend hours commiserating
the vile man you should hate.

You cry that you are afraid
you will never be loved that way,
like the man who drugged and abused you,
the one who put you through hell.

You tell me that, that predator
loves more than anyone
whilst admitting all of
the horrible **** he has done.

You break my heart
into shattered splinters
of self-doubt and recrimination
wondering why you struggle to maintain
a relationship with a man
who causes you so much pain
while I just want to take care of you.

Sometimes,
a wish is not a dream.

It is a hope
that you will be seen
by the love
who haunts
the strange hallways
of your heart’s
maze like affection.

It is an M.C. Escher distortion
all upside down and sideways
or the middle part of a movie
with no reference to the presence
of any minutes before
and no end to come
cause it is paused before
the hero reaches the door
to save whoever
they were searching for.

Sometimes a dream
is not a wish
just an echo
of something
bittersweet
that you will miss.

Until, time takes
the potency of it
and replaces it with
pale nostalgia.

Sometimes,
I would exchange
all of this
for a moment
as brief as a kiss
just to hold you
and comfort both of us.

The plastic straps
that smacked my back,
hurt
when I pulled them off
but I knew they’d
certainly, come back.

Dishtowels wrapped
around my knuckles
as the speed
of my fist’s needs
pounds against
a hanging bag.

Heavy weights
pressed up
or pulled in
repetitions
constantly repeating.

Sweat slickened skin
madly moistened
less from the heat
more from the forcing
of my body to move
fast and hard
across the street
past neighbors’ yards,
then jump rope
till I can hardly breath,

and repeat,
and repeat,
because I think
I need that pain
to feel alive
to feel my brain thrive
and sleep well tonight.

We are gathered here to say
wasn't this dead man great,
to pay perfect tribute to
this cold corpse brute who
can no longer move,
just another dead body
ready to be viewed
by those he knew;

A kindhearted word artist
who never tried his hardest,
but gave each day
an adequate display.

We have come here to
let loved ones mourn in
collective communion
as they highlight
the high points of his life,
whilst forgetting
all the moments
he would still be regretting
if they weren't currently
burying him.

We are here to let go,
give spirit to a dream
that no one can know
as we commit
an empty shell
to a dug out pit
of pointless stupidity.

We come here gravely
like lost lambs hoping
that some after party fairytale
will keep all of our children coping,
doping them with the madness
of an afterlife development
so, they keep hurting
while working for wealthy men.

So, we are gathered here
to celebrate him with a hymn
whilst discarding
the true character of a life lived in passing.

It is
a sweet sweltering
summer ‘s eve
that culminates
in a late
cooling breeze,

followed by
blinking bug **** lights
that dance
across a
dark blue canvass.

Flickering forms
almost as familiar
as the twinkling stars
are followed by
the sound of
castanets clacking
and patrons laughing
whilst a lovely
black haired beauty
who is dressed ornately
twists and bends
her torso and limbs
with feline grace
and the eloquence
of the wind.

Deep smiles
and curious grins
follow her movements
to stunned silence.

Bare midriff
exposes a perfect
belly button
and abs
as her silk scarves
carve
the night
like desire’s knife.

The music ends
leaving men
quivering
and staring
ravenously,
hungering
for her
hard body,
but suffering
the sweet ache
of desire denied
as she exits
at her own pleasure.

Star crossed
space inferno
flashes fast
out in eternity
emitting strange waves
of energy
that illuminate
spiraling galaxies
and gaseous bodies
of swirling vapor.

Vapors that hurl particles
past possible
dark matter.

Undefined energy
that matters not
because I can still see
enough to appreciate
the stars we’ve got
and the ones
that were lost
before their light
ever reached me.

The clever
endeavor
to become
as wise
as they can,

while the fool
thinks he understands,
makes unruly demands
based on plans
that won’t really work.

The wisest among us
know there is always more
to learn
and that we must earn
the knowledge
to use it
with wisdom

while the idiot
seeks to conquer a kingdom
that doesn’t exist
by attaining tainted profits
cause greed
is a product
of faulty logic
that truly costs us
our future.

Winter is a cold hunger’s reign
harvesting warmer passions
that are buried beneath
white frosty sheets
and soft fleshy frames.

It is a longing for vitamin D
the nutrient that we need
for adequate levels of energy
and a host of other necessary
****** functions.

It is the time for that crap
cabin fever, dark dreary lethargy
of creeping depression.

Winter is made for forgetting
when warmer days return
like a victorious king,
rising.

Until, time dethrones him
by its frostbitten whims
when that harsh season
begins again.

I did what I had to do,
just to get through
the day to get you
to listen to what I say.

I struggled to this point
to make decent pay
and still I feel
each struggle
was a battled waged
in vain.

I recall
all the dreams I had.
Now I know
why poets feel bad,
cause the real world
never lives up to
what weird word rhapsodies
can do for you.

Like a falling star
or a candle in the wind
I keep burning
but I am not made
to relight the fury
when it goes out.

Though I live
a life of doubt
uncertain
what this hurting
situation is all about,
I still put verbs
and nouns down
cause this lyrical clown
is trying to leave
something worthwhile
behind.

You have heavy metal
hitting hard
till no one can hear
anything else clear.

That is the
kind of music
I like to move it to,
when I am working through
an intense workout grove.

But after that
exercise session
I need mellow music
of a different persuasion,
less percussion
and more piano solos
with a slow flow.

The kind of chords
that I can daydream to
when I am bored,

the kind that lets me
wander peacefully
discovering new thoughts safely
as I go slipping
in and out of
the wavelength,
of soft melodies
while locked doors
open to these keys
that put me at ease.

Green fields with white lines
mark the marching band’s time
as two rows of three
bright white lights
glare back balefully.

Teenage players push the lines
measuring their manliness,
but it never really moved me
as much as it moved the herd of kids
I grew up with.

So now after they cut the arts,
they debate whether to
cut the yards
that students run through.

After they cut the children’s
one hours of freedom
to create and daydream,
now they want to cut
the football team.

In a hillbilly town
that is where the
white line is drawn,

cause you can take the arts
cut the quivering heart
of creativity
that helps us learn
how to solve problems
uniquely,

but you can’t cut
the concussion causing
sports team,
that would be redneck
heresy.

Life is a nine to five
prison that no one
gets out of alive.

With the dirt brown doors
to the reflective wax floors
that janitors clean every night
after computers lock the building down,

and we fill up the cubicles,
dull gray squares were
we put the professionals
cause that is what they
went to school for.

Eight hours on and overtime,
a couple smoke breaks,
and an intermission for lunch,
but I got a sick hunch
that this groundhogs day
will take me straight
to my grave.

So, every morning
when I wake up,
I take my vitamins,
and drink my
vegetable gunk,
trying to be healthy
so, I can hit the gym,
and head right back in
to my personal work prison.

Let it rain
as I explain
how this water
washes all
that is in vain
out and into
a metal drain.

Let this rush
of running liquid
take with it
the pain
and filth
of this hot day.

Breaking
summer’s silence
let the storm’s
oncoming violence
shake the sediment foundation
as erosion
changes
the face of this
waterlogged nation.

I’ll slip on
my work coat
as you walk on
all alone
swept up
in this wet fury
cause you were in
too much of a hurry.

Let it rain
and feed
the green
what it needs
to replenish
from fallen seeds
all the bushes, grass
and beautiful trees.

Let it rain
and with
the cool percussion
I’ll drift
deeply
into
the greedy
refreshing
sleep
that I need.

To the one I lost
before we ever met,

to the potential mistake
that I would
never regret.

Oh, that I knew you true
but how can I forget
something I have never known.

A wisp of passing wonders
a vault of sparkling dreams
that playout behind the fantasies
and delirious daydreams
of what if realities.

Still, such sorrows spill
as I swallow that sad pill
I feel the poison of
a love that never was.

Never was the fear of ants
the lack of size
and unyielding distance
as they moved on to find
the food they needed to
to feed young emerging ones.

Still, I yield
to the awe,
on bended knees
scraped as I crawl
searching the vast expanse
for something
that I will never
really understand.

My neck and eyes strain
to comprehend
what my brain lacks
as I snap back
to this flesh trap
that longs to be
something more
then a flicker in
eternity
and infinity.

This is for all the ones I used to adore,
the ladies who left before we could explore
a love I have long since lost access to.

This is for each heartbreak that cracked
the beating bit of fabricated flesh that is
not supposed to be damaged like this.

The little red head, the blonde one,
the childhood friend who moved on before,
I realized that we were two coins
floating on the same side in this sad life.

This is for the little boy’s broken dreams,
all those starlight space farer’s fast schemes
of far off fantasies with romantic space queens.

This is for the last chance solo dance
as I face the place where I live alone,
preparing to die in a home
were my hideaway heart stays
because it is tired of trying to play a part
in this human race.

Our nation
is facing
automation
as politicians
push the same
stupid
bootstrap
Ayn Rand
statements.

Current wages
haven’t been
adjusted for
inflation
and corporations
are taking
more welfare
then the poor
are given

A quarter
of the budget
from the military
industrial complex
could wipe out
student debt
and protect
healthcare
so people
don’t have to
move away
or die here

But, I’m just
a nine to five
working wage guy,
how could I
possibly know
about helping our
economy grow
and leveling
the playing field
for each
successive generation
that makes it here.

I remember
brighter days
when us children
would run and play.
Now we cry and say
how we wish things
didn’t have to change.

Our naivete
is like the Christmas scene
made up nativity
that Christians sing to,
praying cause
they believe
their fictions are true.

The unknown
has grown
like towering tumors
stealing our good humor
and replacing
curiosity with
**** filled fear.

Our half of the sphere
spins away,
till all luminescence
becomes some
sweet reminiscences
and each illuminated instance
becomes false foggy memories.

The night is long.
All the light is gone
so, the shadows fade
from lighter shades
to infinite
darkness.

Though, I try
I can’t fight this
tiresome
exhaustion.

So, I let sweet sleep
descend on my
heavy eyelids.

Right now
it is a beating flesh bowl
****** and hollow,
pumping out
semi precise
kind of nice
percussion.

But it is getting
a little crowded
with all those
love notes
of mellow
melancholia
music
that makes me
forget how
to use it
properly.

So, lately
I have been pondering
redecorating
that useless thing.
I’ve been contemplating
taking
all the red blood
that has been bathing
my system
in oxygen
and replacing it
with chambers
of danger
and dust.

If I must
use it
then I need to
remove
all of you
that have been
living in there
rent free
before I can give it
a gothic reprieve,
all dark, gross,
and gritty.

I might even
just take out
the whole *****.

Might be good for the spacing
like removing
walls we weren’t using
anymore.

What do you think?

You can have anxiety,
like temporary
insanity
of pulsing
nerves
racked with
all the possibilities
that you do not
want to come to be.

You can have depression
with similar obsessions
but be affected differently,
whilst anxiety
has you move quickly in terror
depression brings despair
where there is not actions
to repair.

And sometimes
in-between these states of mind
you can find
lurking urges
pushing you to
end the madness
you are going through.

I’ve done my version
of each of these,
walked roads
which few believed
but I can see
the reality
of your suffering,
cause you are
family to me.

The truth is
I got this
niceness
down pat;

But that
isn’t always
who I want
to be.

You see
I do well
in semi-polite
society,
but the
populace
is bothering me
with their
disease
of well earned
stupidity.

This city
is swollen with
a horde of
***** *****
who spout *******.

Pompous
polluters,
pigheaded
capitol looters
who take
take, take,
and take.

But
when
I try telling
other men
and women
about the
corruption
they deny
the filth
of the sty
they are
living in.

Despite,
how hard I try
to be the good guy
and inform them
of the
oncoming storm,
the waters
still rise
before the sheep
realize
that they are
in a flood.

I watch
the cost
of ignorance.
There find
my mind
is losing
patience
and fast behind
these strange time
my compassion
is barely hanging,
slowly changing
into to anger

The rage
is simmering,
swimming in
a soup of
discontent
to apathy,
and I am
about to
let go
of the last shreds
of my empathy.

The rushing rapids of time
crash against the shore
leaving scores
of broken bodies behind.

Precious moment
are precariously fleeting,
falling fast into the past.

Treasured memories are stored
but poorly recalled
till they are permanently lost.

There is something wrong with me,
something dark and lurking
made for hurting
the hearts of other
human beings;

A deeply fractured,
vision’s aperture
that sees
all of these
horrible things.

Slimy tendrils
crawling through
broken bits
of mirrors
I show to
all of you.

Wings of leather
made for flapping,
dark as the cosmos
thunder clapping,
and consuming
all the light that was moving
across this floating sphere.

Shadows and nightmares
worked from the scraps of
this horrendous reality
I see stretched out before me
on a torture rack of human cruelty.

I am certain I could be
the king of better artistry,
present lighter shades
of this reality,
but something deeply damaging
keeps pressing poetry
on modern technology
for the whole world to see
the fruits of my social anxiety.

I pledge from lips
and drink of this
golden jeweled
wine filled chalice.

Soft sun flowers
ornament
her hair of fire,
with fairy wings
and emerald eyes
that have seen
far too many things.

Frail of form
but fierce of spirit
a mind of wonder
with works made
to make us think,

some weak men
may fear it.
but I draw solace
and liquid wisdom
when I seek to find
the shimmering diamonds
within her mind.

My dear I fear
you ask to much
for madness
to be
replaced by love,

that this story sees
eyes of adoration
fly freely towards
the safe haven
of sandy soft shores,

that the broken flesh
which lay beneath
a lacy flowing dress
be healed by
the affection of
some random guy,

that old romantic stories,
fairytale fantasies
perfectly fit
the state of reality
and happily ever after
should be met with
joy and laughter
instead of skepticism,

that one day
my heart will not betray
hopeful aspirations
for the preordered
obsession
of being love’s
dedicated
possessor and
possession.

It is a mass of marvelous memories,
many moments blurred together
in a rainbow of tastes and
family connections,
untouchable
by time’s unfair removal,
but still there for my perusal.

It is a bitter pink, orange
with a sweet sugary
delicious coating
on my half of
the breakfast I loved,
a great grapefruit
smothered in brown sugar.

It a brown liquid
I shouldn’t have been
even drinking
with white swirls
of milkiness
lightening
the shade of it.

It is an early morning
spent riding with
my aunt and grandma
as they delivered
newspapers.

It is walking two dogs
long since departed,

memories sadly distorted
by a tinge of nostalgia
and the melancholia
of lost family members.

It is a color explosion,
a silent cacophony
bursting forth from
the forest green
and grass growing
with summer’s sweet
slickened shimmering,

Life unfolding and flowing,
enveloping all that is seen
in a majestic scene
of nature reclaiming
former shades of
seasonal glory.

I am cowered in awe
and mute in my sorrow
for the many morrows
that will bring
less joyful coloring.