Behind veiled minds, shapes vex open and shut in delicate sway;
moving to meticulous harmony, often misplacing understanding,
narrowly, missing margins of discontent.

Moments lost in struggles of stretch and pull weakens fragile equilibrium
compounding into reasons of no logic or consequence, bewildered
by the total sum of US.

Your ache acknowledged, by a body that longs to burn fires, to touch,
again and again, over and over until skin bursts forth into melodramatic flames,
coveting thoughts of our bodies getting it on to its entirety.

Wearisome desires of want, exhaust beyond measures of frustration,
running from gentle sways of to and fro' oft over-whelms 'dizzy and fraying release me'

My love - lend your heart to sacred whispers lest we  are swallowed by reason of no logic,
leaving us  dismayed, apt to vulnerability, resulting in suffocated flames.

Upon our human form, allow our burn in aches and longing - souls know of no boundaries
except the eternal, totality completion of we.

I ache for you!

I don't recall the moment responsibility grew arms hugging
with gnarled fingers, while burdened skies wrap like a promise,
with its soft tenor of lies and seduction.

Disowned, I remember the drunk old lady who hung
over my shoulders puking responsibility, as if to discharge
toxic waste on a pre-mature baby struggling in labor, while death
chokes the innocent, lost in love's knowledge.

She could have warned me, even better, ridiculed me rather
than put my head on a bludgeoned block allowing me to become
a scapegoat for all the past, present and future mistakes:
Some, of which was manufactured in threads of innuendo
by off-loaders.

These bones of mine are exposed in the twilight of their naked
prejudice, and 'I swear I could hear clouds' curse my name, chanting
wrath, creating chaos through veins of pride, before darkness
fell feasting off my flames.

There is nothing like hollow skeletons of the dead rustling
around in graveyards alone. I stopped to think despite efforts
of going solo; how I miss the stony silence of that skull, bent
with anger seeking solace from my venomous touch.

It would be a blessing to retreat into silent reveries
where I am alone, I am alive, the dead are no more, to wrestle
ghosts with words spoken into the heavens asking,
"is there enough forgiveness left for me?"

I don't want to remember her dead face, how it looked
when her neck snapped while life drained from her stiffened eyes.
I want the abstracts of my life to fit.

So, I howl upon her bitter pill - release me...


7/11/2012