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grumpy thumb Feb 2017
The first blushes
of dawn
fragment mascara line silhouettes
of morn.
Powdered breath
caught in light kisses
of fading neon.
A turned up collar's
no substitute
for bed's warmth.
Heavy eyes loll lingering on
fresh passages
of the passing night
And how two bodies lied
to lie together
for a while.
Shadowing secret
hooded lips concealing
nakedly honest smiles
enough to make the dawn blush
grumpy thumb Dec 2016
Into air
her whispering whisped
in unison with
waiting wishes
and prayer.
They gather where
high winds howl in dispair.
Perhaps you've heared her song.
Or joined your hope to its chorus.
grumpy thumb Dec 2016
They looked on
avoiding
the beggers' mantra plea for change.
Too little
to give
that it didn't seem fair
to give
just to one.
With shame
he too
looked on.
grumpy thumb Dec 2016
Cloud cap,
graphite matte,
raised a horizon peak.
Pale magnolia added flesh
to dawn's early brow.
Is blindness worth witnesssing
the opening eye of the sun?
Waiting for the evening's softer one.
grumpy thumb Dec 2016
Wander where the coldness resides went I.
An alabi to excuse short comings: remaining pride.
Bittersweet freedom when it dies, to forsake the lies covering shame.
We give it a name: must explain.
To make it easier on ouselves like memories dwelling like dust upon shelves like fading footsteps on the shore like internet like stained knees from the fall or ignorance.
When it doesn't make sense and you have nobody to ask but yourself...is this what you get?
grumpy thumb Nov 2016
Petals weaping to the floor
so softy goes his sorrow
among the throng
sinking into silent folds
of rushing strangers
and weary busy waitresses
that trample the petals
as if hearts don't matter.
She would have gathered them
risking crushed fingers and peculiar glances,
and gently place them in her pocket
until home
to save them between book pages,
or the bruised ones for perfume.
She would have noticed him,
he knew
and did once.
grumpy thumb Nov 2016
Mildew bruised walls
dappled spread of white
between damp
black patches
spaning cinderblocks
beneath dry-rot rafters
supporting rusted
corrugated tin roof
worn thin and
pricked with holes.
Facing me and fantasy
they transform and morph
to marble rich castle walls
draped with bold tapestries
dripping crystalline feathers
from golden vaulted ceiling.

A fool sings a bard's song.
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