I wandered away from the path.
Said goodbye to gravel colored gems
Under my stained converses.
It was down by the stream, where I found him.
A small boy with a pocket full of rocks,
And a streak down his face, where a tear ran not too long ago.
You can probably catch it at the end of the stream if you’re quick.
I asked him why his face mimics the river’s current.
He said he had no place to put the rest of his rocks,
Rocks he cupped in red split palms.
I asked him about his empty pocket, who looked
Lonely compared to his brimful brother.
A fierce headshake followed with savant eyes,
He relayed, “That pocket is reserved for someone.”
“Reserved for who?” asked my eagerness.
“Hope.” He whispered.

Your voice is, to
Simply put it, pleasant.
Like strawberries in tea.
A delicious chilling dash,
In a steaming cup
Of cushioned laughter

Most of it is sweet
With perhaps, a
Little bit of ****
That inevitably
Comes with fruit

Words of substance
And manic passion
Drip out of your
Nectarous mouth,
Like maple syrup

Just like the fickle
Strawberries, your
Syrup, it gives me
A rush, the sugary kind…

I can’t close my eyes for a second
Without the ground in my head shaking
Collapsing rocks and an avalanche of debris
Forces the faults in my mind to split open
To take in the shipwreck inside my brain
I cannot tell the difference
Between the debris and my own thoughts
Almost like the sun able to shed its light