There are unknown universes
in the deepest parts of your soul
that I wish to explore
*but you won't let me in

My gut reaction remains the same
shade of grey I remember finger painting yesterday.
The smears cloak my fingerprints
like manuscripts of the negative.
Sharp enough to break through the holiest of sentiments.
It's night two in the dark alone when I call on the ghosts.
Exercise the demons so I may leave the couch at once and turn the lamp on.
Warm bodies approach- blurred yet familiar- radiating only eyes.
Dull and full of assumptions.
I can't respond.
I reach out and watch as effort manifests as motionless limbs again.
Now, my eyes neither open nor closed, identify nothing.
My hands, palms dripping a simple shade of gloom I've come to embrace, greet my brow.
Grey sweat covers this grey reflection and these paintbrush arms I own just want to get up and live.
In color again.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

There's a poem deep inside
a story that needs to be told
the ink needs the paper
it's shape you need to mold

Draw the precious words from your heart
pen a pattern on each line
let go and feel the emotion
as if you are without eyes

The characters pour rapidly
and your beating heart will swell
it's brimming with passion and hurt
as you share the tale you need to tell

Displayed now in black and white
your exhausted heart, quiet and calm
the poetic piece is now complete
and held tightly within your palm

The silence of your calm washed over me like a wave

half thoughts

reaching down your sleeves only to meet disappointment with a knife cutting us in places we fear the most

but in those moments
I see you see me

waiting to leave or reappear

 Where is your mind where you are going?

you left your impression
in the trees
and faces of others (I know and have yet to know)

setting up
unavoidable loneliness,
(the way a landscape can only tell you
all the things you've been thinking)

you leave me
things when you're
l e a v i n g
but

even at the bottom of everything
I find you there
alone too

Her name is Autumn.
She can write, write so beautifully.
Her name is Autumn.
Her written word makes my soul dance quickly.
Her name is Autumn.
She ponders things I never think of
A dreamer of dreams,
A schemer of schemes,
And a wonderful lady at that.
A lady named Autumn.

not a ripple
a stir
all lays washed
and towelled
a world about to shake
droplets
out her hair