The little angel sits in silence
drops pebbles into the well.
Contemplating what state now
will befall both Heaven and Hell.

Little angel toes touch gently
water fresh and freezing
as a gentle southern breeze
brush her neck, kind and pleasing

The war is raging, she knows
a moment she knew would come.
She blesses in peace her sanctuary
where she can be alone.

Far away, the noise of battle
where fiends of carnage dwell.
Five jagged arrows she pulls from her body
then drops into the well.

Here is the place of death and ash;
Here is the slumbering beast of vileness past.
Look at these barbed wire rows
Guarding scarlet stained poppies birthed in woes.

Q: Why should I care for dance competitions or cupcakes or make-up or grades?**

A: Because otherwise, there is nothing to distract from the futility. Nothing to obscure the purposeless fatigue. No vines to ensnare your ankles. Nothing to bind you to the cold earth and spinning tides, becoming all too easy to unstrap your wings and run from the roof, no longer forced to fly.

Without the superficial, I would have already died.

Don’t play out in your yard in Miami
I heard it on the evening news
The newsman’s lips slowly moving
Repeating words he’d never choose

An 8 year old girl caught in the crossfire
A shooter so blinded with rage
That he never noticed she was singing
Standing up on her homemade stage

The reporter keeps giving the details
How the shooter had aimed for another
Over getting revenge for a break-up
How he got the gun from his big brother

He found it under the seat in his car
Children find what adults hide all the time
That it’s not unusual to hear when
A toddler shoots his mother in the spine

One mother grieves while another’s relieved
Either outcome leaves one dead kid
Playing out in her yard in Miami
The last thing that she ever did

cradling
star suicide

matching wristlets
carved with capitals
of other...

but under scarmantle
flow fathomless
immortal sprawls

exclamation
shaken cores

churning metallic
until forged

my head conversations
aren't largely solitude
but opposite you

bet I get your lines wrong often
and brow angles skewed

but we have mad fun
(most of the time)

teetering off the edge
into the unknown

in air-gasping hysterical fits

until we catch
each other's breath
curling up inside
unflinching eyes

A certain song the sea wind knows
it sends thru puckered lips,

like kisses blown, across the bows
of drowsing sailing ships;

and stirs their sleepy sails
from their slumber with it's tune,

unfurls their folded petals
and brings them back in bloom.

Maybe the words I write will somehow float off the page, they'll drift and drift through the sky until they reach your eyes and you'll see I was right here the whole time

Maybe the notes I play will echo endlessly throughout the night, they'll ring across the clouds and the stars and they'll enter your mind

Maybe the words I whisper to myself when I'm alone will find their way to your lips and maybe, just maybe, you'll say
*you're mine