Synne

Synne Sep 2012

I depart from my class,
ending at 9:35pm
to begin the walk
back to my apartment.
I pass the downtown hospital--
its ominous fluorescent lights,
shining through the cracks
of yellowed window blinds
which sway in the stagnant air
to the ticking of anticipation.
Shining.
I watch the sky, a dusting of stars;
which lights
are the ones that have died
a beautiful death--
sacrificing themselves, not knowing
the amusement we have in their funeral.
As they shine,
I can only imagine the lives inside those walls--
ending, slowly, quickly, possibly, inevitably.
I hope you had the chance to shine
as bright as they did.

*September 2012

Synne Sep 2012

Uncertain Autumn

Maybe it was the crisp gusts from the East
that spoke silence to him,
and told him to turn away.
Maybe it was the golden whorls of leaves at his feet,
that whispered memories to him,
and persuaded him to change.
Maybe it was the tender wisps of his hair against his face,
that calmed his regrets,
and made it certain that he should go.
Maybe it was the barren trees that made his gray eyes weep,
and this made it so.

Maybe it was the frail oak branches, the frigid lullabies he longed for as a child,
the hues of gold and brazen horizon of his youth,
that cradled his senses with arms of opportunity and promises of ripe dreams,
that showed him his fate rested in the East.
And so I’ve been told, he then parted with his inner defeat.

*June 2012

Synne Sep 2012

Sad Eyes

I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours.
So beautiful, yet so desolate.
I wonder what you’ve seen,
I wonder where you’ve been,
I wonder what you see in me.

Your charcoal pupils
and slate-gray irises.
I feel as if I could swim in them--
a pool of gray on a misty day.

Do you see your world in shades of gray,
I wonder.

Glossy with the residues of emotion,
your sad eyes have so much to say.

Do you see your world in shades of gray,
I wonder.

*June 2012

Synne Sep 2012

Anatomical Dialect

Isn’t it funny how
you speak to me the most
when your lips are silent.

Isn’t it funny how
your eyes can recite the soliloquies
of your soul.

Your communication does not need to be audible
for it to be understood.

Your words don’t need to be spoken
for me to fathom your intentions.

The creases at the corners of your lips,
the 3 freckles on your left cheek,
the birthmark 6 inches below your right ear,
the turquoise hue from the web of veins at your wrists,
the plush ivory that is your skin;
all serenade me with the sweetest melodies and
mesmerize me with the most eloquent prose.

So please be quiet a little longer,
and let your body speak.

*June 2012

Synne Sep 2012

From Ether to Entropy

Where is my saint in the clouds
Who has fallen from ether
To reconfigure my essence?

Where is my saint in the foam of the sea
Who has evaporated into the mist
And waits to be inhaled by me?

Where is my saint in the grooves of my past
Who paints with my tears
A portrait of the coagulence I feel in the core of my being?

Where is my saint in the eyes of the stars
Who refuses to shine
Until I’m sheltered in between the chaos of time?

Where is my saint in the pores of the ground
Who tacitly unearths a grave
And convolutes my flesh into the pith of the earth?

Where is the demon
Who was born from my negligence
And taints the deeds of my conscience,
Frays the seams of my being
And lays dormant in the cellar of all my possibilities?

*March 2012

Synne Sep 2012

Chisel

I wanna sit you down on a stool and chisel you out.
Start at the top, and work my way down.
I’ll be careful around your curves, your edges.
I’ll keep your stature in tact.
I’ll let the scraps fall to the floor,
The pieces of your innocence you insist we believe.
I’ll hold you still, with a firm hand.
I’ll whisper names of deities for you,
I’ll open our windows and let the songs of birds flutter
And echo in your eardrums.
I’ll make sure you aren’t lonely,
Once I leave for the day and put my chisel away.
I’ll gather the pieces that have fallen,
I’ll collect them,
Treasure them,
Bury them,
Remember them.
I just wanna sit you down on a stool and chisel you out.
Start at the top and work your way down.
Let all your falsity fall to the floor,
And watch as your alleged ferocity escapes through the door.

*March 2010

Synne Sep 2012

Prisons of Smoke

What is this poison,
that dims hope like light in a room,
caked with cigarette smoke?

The sour bath of sins
that spoils the fertility of our souls,
like the black sap,
clogging the crimson holes in our conscience.

What is this medication
that murmurs obediently in the tunnels
of your flesh like a blind fly trapped in an hourglass?

The thick soup that sinks the dredged
pulse of life as it croaks and awakens in
hesitation
for the next perpetual dawn.

A sign tacked like an eviction notice in the skulls
of your dreams, telling them:
“I’m sorry Sir, but for this magnitude of pain,
there is no cure.”

And still like an earthquake, death
trembles at your fingertips like an
old, worn man— asking, perpetually,
“When’s the next train to Calgary?”

I have not the guts to tell him
the smoke has held me
captive
all this time.

*2011