A white herd of buffalo--
angelic ancestors manifest--
galloping in silence
as they cross the Vast.

And here I lay small
in the cooling wake of their shadows
that caress and whisper to me
just as they do the gentle hill beneath
me, and her sisters,
covered in velvet pastures
of gold, of green, of grey, of blue.

And here I lay down
like the animal defiantly far
from his hurd. I'm abandoned
from the blistering heat
and coarse unholy asphalt.

There is a peace in feeling small--
in feeling alone--
and my mind drifts along
with the shadows all around me.

My hair takes up life and plays
like children with the grasses in the wind.
I stare beyond the eagle's cry
where the noble ones above have
become purple from carrying
with them for miles and miles
Hope, pouring clear and wet, and
Grace, flashing a pure stream of light.

And with the first call of thunder
I stand.

With my bones aching with anticipation,
my fingers reaching for the connection,
I stand.

Alive and made plain.

Crops crave for water at a hill
Thirst visible on their stalks
The sky gushes a coal black
But no. It is not rain.
Nothing to quench a crop’s thirst.
Only the manifestation of darkness
roaming the skies
And yes. Walking on a road, intimidated,
Before me, in the distance:
Nothing but dead man’s hill
But now a smirking old woman:
Silently still.

The cold hands of January
grasp at February’s promise,
the warmth of March
always just out of reach.

You rub my shoulders,
kiss away the ache
as April continues her rain
over gentle, submissive May.

We sing the song of the whippoorwill,
its haunting anthem spilling
out across the valley floor
when June gives in to July

and August crowns the summer sky.
September will leave
when the colors bleed,
October betrayed by the coming frost.

What will you do
when November comes,
when ice and pain
move in to claim my breath?

Comfort me.
Smile with me.
Lie to me.
Tell me there is no December.

Rain befalls the afternoon like a heavy blanket
A blanket under which I rest
Legs crossed and crossed and crossed
Neck curved as a comma,
The smallest body you have seen

Nothing is mine
My arms, my hands, my head
The water that falls
Lands on nothing that belongs

Nothing is ours
The sky, the ground, the air
Skin becomes wet
Skin and water with no owner

We must've spun around about 78 times
The morning was a majestic disaster
Broken glass on the floor,
Paired with fallen curtains,
Scattered reading material,
Chocolate wrappers all over the rug

There was a sense of expired enjoyment
All over the living room
My eyes were all beat up
And the pain laid quietly beneath them

There was a tremble in my hands
All I could think about was
The window that doesn't open
Sean Daley's depression as a happy mess
Knowing today needed a mute button

You blossomed me to life
Blushed me shades of rose and cerise
Oh dear let me brush my care
but promise me I won't pale
to the crescent moon and
leave me to bloom

Roses bloom
When summer comes to call
But aren't we forgetting,
In spite of its strength,
The petals still fall.

The summer hides
When roses turn sour
We mourn the loss
Of its delight and threat
But it's still just a flower.

Now roses bloom
On your shirt and, Doll,
All the summers in the world
Couldn't make your flower of blood
Worth it all.