on an account of being mardy,
these sincere words will not
be exposed. nor, fall from my mouth
and land at your feet.

while mine storm through rivers
every settled pebble swirls about
like every thought, every question.

my error, left in a translucent
body of unclear directions.
your silence, left in a flaming pit
burning in my gut.

knowingly enough, everything
will fall to the bottom
and there it will rest.
every pebble, every ash.

feeling:
as an accent
hovering above
the vowels in
your stomach.
leaning towards
with soft feelings.
to push away?
harsh, at most.

an educated swain,
yet even the
stroke of skin
is foreign to you.

you’ll never get it

swift words,
shifting focus
mechanically.

digest and forget.

arise,
those weighty eyelids.
caressing lips and
read upon hips;
“void all fondness”.

yield to fall,
fall- for a poet.

through these
well paced hands,
one could say i’ve been asleep.
motionless,
while measured events
click their way
through a weep.

checking back
to you often,
not once yield- you do mock.
continuous,
till time runs out
i’ll be clenching
my clock.

despite self-spite
dub myself a realist?
how dare i

shaking, jerking
back and fourth
as a squeaky rocking chair,
gasping for breath
the ****** of the
uninterrupted downfall.

once thought,
which a light was a mask
gleaming upon my face.
now, it is nothing but a foil
enhancing subtly,
neither overpowering,
nor hiding.
shooting through my very
fingertips,
the beauty i make
the creation i desire.
light does not make dead cells
look beautiful-
they already are.

majority got me
when the light went out
pendulous
from their thin wrists-
displaying the unattainable

all it took
thin smiles and closed eyes
that held
elevating a detailed jaw

in perfect light
even dust
and dead cells
look beautiful