White.
The world is white.
It is full of different shades of white.
Is the world white?
Some days I feel as though the world is black, but that may just be the darkest shade of white.
Black.
I know the world has dark days, but that is all they are.
Days.
Twenty-four hours pass and the world transforms into grey.
Grey is a color of the new world that will replace the old.
A dingy, broken place becomes just a little bit brighter.
I know someday this world will be such a light grey, it will once again return to its former glory.
When that day arrives we can only hope the changing world has changed us as well to a new color.
The color of a blank slate.
The color of hope.
White.

can you hear it
that's the sound of nothing
the silent sound of nothing going on

can you feel it
that's the feeling
the feeling of nothing being read into this poem

can you see it
that's the dullness
the dullness in the recess, hiding out between every line

try not to waste it
as you taste it
the bitter sweet taste to the end of the rhyme

Dust gathers
insipid dreams
we return to atoms
what is in it after all
death or life
wounded memories
splayed broken

we write because
unburdening happens
wonder what social media
does to the facade we build
cosmetic bridges
imaginary castles
impregnable fortresses

capillaries to the heart
blocked channels
voices of velvet sounds
cascading in the night
of doubt.The dust settles
after the storm

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

is that hemlock with your words
numb and nice wisdom demolished
one sip
gone into Hades
where flatlines collect
irrespective of  consequence.

is that your tail
behind my back
checking out my misdemeanors
collecting the wild oats
that I sowed
in silicon valleys?

don't mistrust me
i paid the price of hell
to be here in this paradise
fishing for jonah
and
the great whale.

come let us lay together
in this poetic swamp
encapsulate
our doubts in tupperware
tightness, move on into
no explanations required.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The beauty of violence
Of motion unbridled
Of stagnant serenity
And silent revivals

If I, strangely, die
You'll be the last one to know
And the last to care.

the weather's gray.
so gray.

and now it comes.

the moment you should've known but were "too busy"

now it's here.

we burn.
and you cry.

but we've already been locked in our fate.

just go to sleep.

go to sleep.

and it's not fair.

this burning desire to keep myself from getting hurt,
is just getting in the way.