If I was dead,
And my bones adrift
Like dropped oars
In the deep, turning earth;

Or drowned,
And my skull
A listening shell
On the dark ocean bed;

If I was dead,
And my heart
Soft mulch
For a red, red rose;

Or burned,
And my body
A fistful of grit, thrown
In the face of the wind;

If I was dead,
And my eyes,
Blind at the roots of flowers
Wept into nothing,

I swear your love
Would raise me
Out of my grave,
In my flesh and blood,

Like Lazarus;
Hungry for this,
And this, and this,
Your living kiss.

Time hath ceased.
All clocks stopped.
Where you passed by
in dew kissed meadow,
void of thy presence.
We hear no more
at our door
thy gentle knock.
After thy passing
and before
persistent loud cry
of Whip-poor-will.
Now that is still.

Silence.


**~Hilda~

Your a
memory I
want tattooed in to my mind....

I don't understand it.
I am not a anxious person.
But lately, I've been catching myself on the edge of a break down --
not necessarily a destructive breakdown,
more like a breakdown of happiness.
Thinking about how much I love her...
It's almost pathetic.
Wanting her in my arms holds a physical ache.
Thoughts of her have formed an almost meditative mantra.
Her presence calms my mind like the shoreline does the sea.
Revelation.*
She's become my anchor.

I feel your gaze, piercing my own stare
Your yellow, gaunt face
Hollow
Lifeless
Your eyes - no longer hold the dancing light
- even when you smile
Your fire is burning out.
When our cheeks touch and our bodies meet, (to embrace),
I can feel your collar bones poking my neck,
as you hold on tighter
I'm scared to exert the same force -
In case you lose the balance that you're hardly maintaining.
My hand traces your spine
How feeble and weak you are under those baggy clothes.
Your hips are like guns -
They're triggers
Mounted and transfixed on either side of you.

Feeding on air and water
How long will you last?
How long till you collapse?

I feel you weakening a little more - everyday
From a stick to a twig
Oh, so fragile
My china doll.

Her heart is a broken record
Constantly being scratched by knives and scissors
Lost in their quest to find a spot still intact

When put in the old phonograph
It plays a soft melody filled with piano notes
That sound like rain on a gray day

The strings of the violin echoes in the background
Along with the lower tones of the cellos
The solitary saxophone cries;
The flutes and clarinets follow its lead,
Desperately letting out their high notes of agony

Drums emerge blasting anger
Encouraging the rest of the instruments to go along
And when it is about to hit its ******…
Another scratch – a deep crooked scratch.
It takes a while before the song starts over.

It’s hard to imagine
This was once a beautiful, shiny vinyl
That stood up in the wooden shelf
Now it is filled with dust
Making company – only – to the Merlot sitting by the desk
And to the ears that can hear nothing
But the harmony of the broken hearted.

...Writer's block...