what other objects do you have,
to turn them into metaphors
that profess
your affections for me?
do not give me flowers,
or anything that exists in nature.
keep away the comparisons from seas,
the sun, and anything in between.
i have heard them all from past lovers,
& they all left me in time.

Lines like a laxative for tongues,
The individual pieces become greater than its sum,  
Summer time therapy dialing up in increments,  
Wouldn't know the difference between the butterflies and chrysalis.
Syzygy in spirit as sympathy in the impetus,
Synergy  in serendipity makes symmetry seem ubiquitous.
Flummoxed, I fell face first flying into fellowship,  
Feeling fusion in the furrows of my fingertips,  
Figure this,  mistigris,  implement mirrors  for the synthesis,  
Taking root  in the underground,
This is censorship on stimulus.  
Kaizen from the get-go,
How did silence ever get gold?
Climate of the  biome discernible by  petrichor,
Some of my greatest allies are people I've never even met before.  
Mumpsimus with metaphors, metatron or metamorph,
A mess of Mesozoic memoirs  drowning in a reservoir,
Reserve my right to write a mire of a  message board,
Desire an empire of satire to conquest; explore,  
Buyers,  sellers,  best befores,  
Crying out to be adored,
The expiration estimation rivals rivals' primal repertoires.
Rhymes like mycelium,  climbing up the  parapets,  
Embrangled mosaics interceding abstract arabesque.

He is subtle over the horizon as the time strikes.

His colors, so rich, as he began to alter the tresses of her moonlight.
On the ground below, the land is quite wise;
And a creature looks up and observes above the horizon’s line.
O looking for those signals, indiscernible to the eye, the clock is forever ticking—will it ever be time?
So, nevertheless, there’s a deed that it can’t deny;
The **** rises early, always on time.
The longing soul cannot rest, for it must comply.

As the light of life ascends, on his own, to shine.
The sweet, dew-grass mist is redolent of past July’s.

While savoring the moments of their short, but daily, bind—the **** steals one last peek of the suns beauty until next time.  
If the dear rooster had a button, it would turn back time, rewind—
As the air of dawn is caressed and
The **** waits, and the **** cries.

I've grown so accustomed to this numbness.
It spreads through my body
like wildfire
consuming dry skin and chapped lips.
It overtakes all of me, fills my being
from stomach to heart and
eventually my mind.
It begins to feel like brush on the forest floor,
stale and easy to catch
but quick to burn up.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------

Our ship is sinking
so quickly.
Blink and you miss
all the little moments we could have had
that you failed to see.
Your blindness and My complacency
like cannonballs
punching holes in our vessel
and me in the stomach.
You don't even seem to care Captain.
We're patching up a sinking ship with bandages
but it won't stay afloat.

the first time I saw you smile
I understood photosynthesis
I knew then why
flowers died
without the sun and
how my entire life
I had been wilting
Slowly
without your warmth
then I heard you speak,
your mouth poured honey
So sweet
I was positive you kept
bees in the root of your teeth
I didn’t even know you
and yet I was convinced
I would grow to love you
you told me your name
and I cried
Silently
at how beautiful it was
H, I don’t think you understand
see I had spent the hours of
sleepless nights carving you
into my bones
so much so that you had already
become apart of my skeleton
before you even knew who I was.
and you learning who I am was
the best part. I watched
Fireflies
erupt in your eyes as I told
you my favorites of everything
and I had grown so accustomed
to seeing that
Light
in your eyes
I didn’t even noticed when it
Faded.
see I had dug you into
my bones, so even when you
Left
you still weren’t
Gone.

whilst the plants during winter wait
they wait for warmth and springtime rain
whilst they do so,
the ground welcomes the quiet snow:
if they, so I.
the snow embraces the ground and trees
singing soft and enamoring melodies
the trees do not fret or cry spitefully,
but instead appreciate the cold beauty:
if they, so I.
there is pain in the wait, but joy as well
a chest for two reasons could easily swell
with anger or laughter and it is a choice,
we the tuners the tone of our voice:
if they, so I.
what does that mean?
why love the snow that hides summer's green?
why must we wait to enjoy the sun?
so I say, the flowers still bloom when their time come:
if they, so I.

what was once a galaxy
has become a minefield
of massive black holes,
and all our rocket ships
have crash landed
without taking us home.

lost dreams of flying,
mechanical wings,
intergalactic suffocation,
stars in glass jars
as souvenirs
just in case we got close
to the moon.

we took off as one,
our faulty parts disintegrating
upon reaching the exosphere.
turbulence, then nothingness,
a lack of closure,
and gravity
working in reverse.