his little red car didn't do 100
it didn't even do 55
it just scooted around the carpet
getting stuck on sticky substances
that were not embarrassing
his little red car drove along
uneven ground, and occasionally
ran into feet, that were mountains
that crushed the little red car
in anger and under the heel of rage
he was lost for words
his little red car, not broken
still on four wheels still drove on
until the day it ran into Mommas hand
it backed up and drove forward again
and the hand didn't move
it didn't ruffle angelic hair
and it didn't wave away his little red car
with indulgence
it didn't move at all
he was lost for words
he drives slowly along the streets
in his black car, red a color of agony
while he scoots around the alleys
his bare feet cold upon metal
there is no carpet, no stickiness
to be left as an unknown substance
allowed to cloud his vision
of how it is to be to drive around
carefree
at a loss for words

even while you make me

*****

as you lay me

There was only silence and a gentle breeze that caressed my hair and the slightly insubstantial ghostly figure that followed me but never tried to talk to me but just followed and looked, with a stare...

It was cold, it was dark in the middle of the day as the sun beat down through the thick trees and chased the shadows away while I traveled down the cracked and broken path and passed old Mrs Wilson 1827 ~ 1868 (almost ancient in those days)
It was Mr Wilson's heartbreak in the words of How Do I Live Without You? carved in stone that told me I was almost there

There you were, under the weeping willow tree.
I wasn’t sure how prophetic it was and I could never be sure if it wept for you, or for me.
The ground was brittle beneath my leaden feet but it never disguised each and every heart beat. It grew green beneath my head as I lay down and slowly wept my daily tears that seemed to be fed straight into the ground.

I always noticed the gray of the stones, the black of the night, the brown of the leaves and it always felt right.
I scented the death mixed with the hope of the lives left behind and I always noted the inexplicable sorrow of words carved in stone that were written to remind...

But I never once before noticed the butterflies

Today I did because they were everywhere.
They sat upon stone monuments that breathed in with sorrow and the butterflies seemed to care. They flitted inside the darkness to light the path home and glittered in the dappled sunlight that spilled between the branches and sparked happiness while they did idyllically roam.

It was the one that landed on my cheek as I stared into nothing and got it’s tiny feet trapped in my river of sorrow and sat quietly, eyes focused on mine, it’s emerald wings beating slowly back and forth and reminded me of a churning tide that would undulate with all of my tomorrow then sat still and watched me with a calmness that took my breath away and whispered inside my head...

Why do you live in yesterday?

I’m sorry my memories of you keep me tied to the past
and I feel the need to want to hold onto you
to make you more real and make more of everything last
I get it now and I promise I will try...

*Thank you for the butterfly...

Doth you malign me
with virtuous intent
your design upon me
is a malignant bent

If, after being bound
by silver motes of rain
that soaked not unto my skin
but which quenched the fire
that I writhed upon in pain
had I ripped you from beneath
my own eager breast, you surely
would not rest but proudly
would have died, alone, on a street
but would you have found rest?

Dare not you parlay with me!

I still have eyes, a mind, a soul
you see. As adamantly that you
try to leap from my body to be
independent, you bleed, fresh,
from my flesh.
Unable to breath outside my body

So hush and do not fash so

Hold your peace and pray
I am disinclined to end it this day
just so you know