Rainwater is pooling on Panola Mountain tonight , plants are rooting
atop her granite escarpments , Bucks are foraging across the lowlands ,
a crescent Moon will become visible as the storm moves Eastward ....
Couples will fall in love tomorrow across the lawn , family reunions and carefree children will run and laugh in the park ... Herons forage to the cacophony of bullfrogs , insects , whippoorwills and owls .. Alexander Lake on this night mirrors a million stars , turtle doves will sound the call to morning , turkey hens will echo across her plentiful moors ...

If something needs to be said
Don't let it stagnate in your head
Don't chew your lips or bite your tongue
Just sing it out 'till your song is sung
It may end in love or even a fight
But at least you'll know the truth in the light

                                   By Phil Roberts

Stage 1
I'm tired of being wrecked
My heart beats in my head
I'm tasting my thoughts
So fresh
My mind is racing
A marathon I never signed up for

Stage 2
I'm sick of being crippled
I'm stuck between two walls
Repressed
But now I can't move
The walls fade away
Into snowing noise
Static Siberia  

Stage 3
I'm bothered by defeat
Sole in this somber corridor
I see my comfy bed with plush linen
Summoning me
With taunting plea
I unfold in my blankets
concede to the voice
The corrupted trap
My wrists and ankles, shackled
Squirming to flee
I can't retreat
The night owl snarling inside my ears
I slam my view

Stage 4
My milky eyes are bleeding
I'm zooming again
Fleeting faster
Things are blurring
Sensory overload
I fall to the ground as my legs buckle
I look up to see..
The finish line!
I hardly stand, treading towards it
The last traces of energy
Escaping me
Yawns of hope
I just want to sleep

Stage 5
Only to find out I'm in a dessert
The finish line, simply an empty mirage
Sadness of lost hope
Disheartened and frustrated
I find myself racing
Repeating my cycle of marathons
Until morning catches up behind me.
Still running inside my tired mind

© Jl 2016

Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.*

Concrete instances of emptiness.
Blinds not drawn. Flowers do not arrive.
Bed made tight; no stilettos. Never sticky.
Doves alone coo. Pet names only for pets.
No need to shave. Last night's wine. One glass.
Coffee becomes ******. Condo not condoms.
Hands and knees only to fix sink. No position.
No lipstick stains the staff. Lingerie a catalog.
Flag always at half mast. Sleep soft, not deep.
A **** is a chicken; a ***** is a cat.
Fingers seeking ****** find nothing.
Blowing your nose becomes PDA.
Ghostly hands caress vanished thighs.
All embraces are distant. Hugging your sister.
Mysteries of faded flesh; sound after sigh
Not a trace of perfume or personality.
The orgasmically charged what isn't.
What is missing prevails. What was is missing.

  ~mce