And then it was time to live again.

After so many tombstone day dreams
and chills from winter's breath,

After closing living room shutters
and doubting fragile steps,

After plucking the penultimate feather
from Hope's avian breast,

Spring came round that corner swinging,
and what was there to defend?

I was angry when I saw her dancing.
She had no right.

Just last night she danced with me,
turning blues to pomegranates
and stepping on the seeds.

She walked through my corridors
(dim lights, bright-eyed)
painting the walls with broken expectations.

She whispered like a secret
she was now laying bare
at the tongues of anxious barbarians.

This morning her hips repulsed me,
churning smiles from grizzle
and burning coffee beans.

She had no right.

Sweet intoxication
flowing through my eyes.
Don't let me down,
don't let me down
until the other side.

I know you hide the best of you
just beyond my reach.
Sweet intoxication,
tell me your name is peace.

Cover the lies with blankets of morphine,
ecstasy and bliss.
Surely if there was a heaven to have
it would taste something like this.

Plunge down like you did again,
fill my veins with the rush.
Sweet intoxication,
you are never enough.

The reason that mutes the murmur of my lips
for the silence no one near me forgets
is the ******* of my heart.
Without knowing,
of what would it speak?
Filled with words,
the hollow cap peeks
into the muscles and bone.
Flesh for a kingdom,
thought for a throne.
The heaving poet sleeps
not sound,
not silent,
but there at 3:15.
Spilling his spiraling
tic toc dreams
between the pallid sheets.

It has taken this long to distill my memories
easing them into the world of potability.
It has taken too long to distill my thoughts
and they have, every evening, gone sour.

The best poems
are never shared.
They are written
on the insides of our eyelids
and each one reads
'You are beautiful.'
I cannot speak your poem.
I am still learning to pronounce my own.
The language of the God
who penned the phrase
is foreign to my wandering tongue.
But I read it.
Over and over again while I sleep,
stumbling over the words,
making mince of all His poetry.

I wish we could be genuine.
Touch our hearts with our fingers and hold them up to the light.
Paint murals where the shadows once dreamt.

I wish we could be bold again.
Scream with the intensity we did when we were born.
Find what we desire, and pursue at all cost.

I wish I could be broken.
Set fire to this barrier wrapping my limbs and chisel into the bone.
Mine what I know lies deep within.

I wish we could be genuine.
Flush our faces with insecurities and hold more than each other's skin.
Let our tears and our laughter mean what they meant.