it was a movement.
one of a brother,
a mother,
a father.
but not a movement
of a lover.
the way your lips
so gently brushed mine
was not beautiful.
the delicacy was displaced.
in traveled the nonchalance.
they call it a peck.
It swayed like a shock wave.
such a minute movement.
shockingly appalling.
shockingly chaotic.
there was
no love.
no embrace.
no heat.
but rather the
indecisive movement.
of the cold
and the ashamed.

Slowly
Revolutions
Loss of the momentary flickering
an inescapable fleeting of infeasibility
spun.
These beautiful colors
Become one beautiful web
Smashing into those hurt eyes
With every pulse, movement
Slow grey spin-spun twist-turn
familiarities modify
With every revolution.
Distortion in the most striking.
potential is no contest
confusion is adjustable when
the view falls
and sees all of those wonders
from the bottom up.
Haphazard,
Those blurs whisper that
The wind tells no lie
When it convinces a soul
To forgot what it feels like
To stand solid
Spun.

No light penetrates
The overwhelming warning
Of the Heavens,
A warning of brokenness
That cannot be avoided,
A cool quietness smothers the trees,
An eerie implication.
Halted are the simple treks for survival.
Forgotten holes of yesterday reopened.
As the clouds resurrect,
A thankful calm washes away
The fear of the unknown.
Fear comes before growth and
Preparedness need not be remembered.
With the rain comes baptism,
With the storm comes renewal.

Cracked flesh,
No false-hope for momentary revival
Pained pink hills over blue-veined tributaries
Paths etched, crisscrossed trails over mountains,
Through dips of valleys,
Soot, jagged-tipped, hide-ripped peaks,
Dotted with sunlit imperfections,
Weary roads taken,
Indention of past bands
Imprinted on the fourth peak *****.
Ghostly shadows lie underneath the new alloy,
Shadows of a daunting apparition
That wont let go of its grasp.

A havoc reeker has
The shameful power
To torment
An inflating infatuation
Until all that remains
Turns sour
And is an unrequited stain
Left precariously on
The collar of a
Crisp, white, dry-cleaned shirt.

It kills,
Grinding, smashing, twisting,
Kills.
To watch the convulsions
To watch your spine rise
And fall
With exasperated chasms
Desperate for some thing
To subdue the inescapable presence
Of something deemed typical.
Is it easier with your back turned?
Or does it hurt just as much?

It is one fourth inch thick.
God must have granted you
An extra one fourth inch
At least.
Bullets may still have
The power to shatter
But those words spoken
Never had a living chance
To break through
That one fourth and
One extra one fourth inch
You have.
If words were a sledge hammer
I would have to crack your skull.