I keep on painting sunsets
with acrylic glaze
that remind me of the fiery
passion we both shared
when we were together.

Some steel blues and warm violets
remind me of the tears I cried
and the jewels you gave to me.
The golden yellow hues bring me
back to the Boston skylines
we photographed together.

Whenever I hear a plane overhead,
I wonder if you're on it coming
back for me. To plead for me.
But I know better than to keep
wishing upon them as if they
were stars granting my desires.

outside it's browns and greys
Inside an orange glow permeates,
skimming the surface
a Ravel march serenade.
the scent of burning pumkin.
You're in the garden planting tulips for
Spring.
when it arrives,
will kindness bloom anew
alongside the rows of colour..
or will we witness the beauty out there
Separately?

I carry my doubt, worry, fears out to your truck but leave them in the passengers seat.
For this moment, I am alive.
I gaze out towards the orange and brown trees, tinted with a red as deep as the love I feel for you. Walk towards the wind, my hair rustles with the leaves and you laugh as my cheeks turn pink from the cold. Sit out on a dock and overlookinh a lake straight from a painting, I am alive. I can see the green horizon and the reflections of branches in the water, over hills and under grass, if you look just a little farther, you'll find you and me, because we're so alone in this moment and I can finally breathe because I feel so free. I lean into the wind, fall back against the dock and sigh, a smile on my face, the lake looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue plane. I am alive. I am breathing, and for once I don't hate the fact that I am. This sno-berry tea carries the taste of longing that, if elsewhere, I can only get from your lips, and I love it. I am an addict itching for a fix of release from reality and instead of my normal methods, I found it in you.

Sour.
Bitter.
Bright.
The sky before the night.
The leaves in the fall.
The rhythmically bouncing basketball
The poet’s nightmare.
The fire’s glare
The bottle of prescription pills
The pumpkins on our porch, still.

Today I observed the flaming trees,
The flakes of gold drifting in the wind,
Like sleepy fairies,
And I thought,
I want to die like a maple,
die like an aspen in the fall,

as my strength is stripped away,
the underlying poetry of my veins is exposed,
and the tough skin peels back,
to show my unsung melodies,
Every note!

and it is a song,
blending beautifully with the cosmos,
Oh, that I would die like a tree,
when you see my barren body,
remember my last red moment,
full of auroreatic brilliance,

The Man: It is I, your hero, your hero made of steel. Ready to protect you from those ready to **** and steal...

The Woman: Who is my hero? Who is my king? Who is the one who rebukes those relentless fiends?

The Man: It is I, your faith, your faithful loving love, the Awesome God Almighty, as faithful as a dove.

The Woman: You live far away in Heaven, and I’m a country-side girl. Why do You call my name when I’m as robust as a man?

The Man: I gave you your yellow hair, the shadow of the radiant sun. I gave you your freckles, the night stars scattered on your precious face.

The Woman: I raise hens all day long, I rear pigs all day long, yet You seek me my hero, and watch me as intensely as a hawk.

The Man: I am here for you, and you exist for Me. How then can I neglect you when your heartbeats call unto Me?
I formed the mountains, and I shaped the valleys, but you I created in My likeness and for My honour.

The Woman: Surely I have nothing to offer You, a lone country girl. You own all of Heaven, where the gold’s as clear as glass.

The Man: The gold may be pure, the waters may be clear, but I could never surrender My life for them as I did for you that yesteryear.

The Woman: Don’t flutter me with words, my new found King of Steel. I have nothing to offer You as You fill my heart with joy.

The Man: You do hold something, something I deem as of great worth. It is your heart My young princess, My daughter and My love.

The Woman: You’re the Rider on the White Horse, but I’m a poor farmer on a dull mule,


*(The document ends here as it has disintegrated too far to be able to make retrieve more of the work.
It is kept in an unspecified museum.)

The color orange puts me in pain
The memory, I seek to overwrite
The instances of which I would complain --
"The color orange puts me in pain!"
I recall the carrots, left out in the rain
And the red hair soaked with sweat by night
Yes, the color orange puts me in pain
The memory, I seek to overwrite

tick tock
rhymes with clock
and sunrise
with goodbyes
know
to go
and flow
and so
By and fly
and cry
but while heart
pairs with start
nothing, not one thing
rhymes with orange.
Poor orange.