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Tori Jul 2020
It’s really, truly morbid, how my vehicle came to me,
Twas’ the death of a friend of a friend of a friend
Of a friend who was close to thee
He was dead when I got your keys.  
I find that I’m quite infatuated, by your shining, crimson flair  
And your window that squeaks, and your faux leather seats,  
Stained carpets and central air
Who knew trucks could be debonair?  
Shall I name all life’s pains that mean naught in you?
Like that person who says, and then he says, and she says
They all say, and then it is true
So, I drive to find new points of view.
We will thrive on gasoline fumes and the human will
Until the ground is ****** dry and wells shot
Till then, freedom, adventure, and hidden hills
Will be ours, you and I, Bombadil.
An ode to my faithful steed, a red ford F-150.
Tori May 2020
I want to be near you sometimes. As much as I love you
I wish that I could love you better, that he could love you better,
That you could love you better.
Its not about being bitter,
though I am, and it is
A taste of chicory coffee dark and thick as car oil,
Soiled.
And you can’t spit it out, the taste lingers around,
And just like coffee, I’m addicted, taking a new sip every morning,
Remembering his face, when he looked at you with a curled lip and recalling
Your face pretending not to know.
And I resented you both.
I took an oath,
Never to blindly bind myself brainless and loveless
Now I’m unwound,  
Trying desperately to learn how to knit
Because everything is in tatters.
-Tori
Tori Aug 2019
The sun hides his face behind gray morning clouds,
Like a tot playing hide and seek.
And at times from around those silver-lined borders,
His beaming face will peek.
He spies me there as I wander below him,
Lilting along my way,
And at once tucks his face out from sight again,
It’s a little game we play.
The westward wind is at once cheerful and lithe,
He tosses my hair to the sky,
Strumming the treetops like a God-made kazoo,
With notes that are cool and light.
The trees all awake to the sound of his tune,
Tossing gracefully to and fro.
Maiden dyads and naiads waltz gracefully on,
Swinging in time with their boughs.
The gravel laughs heartily beneath my worn feet,
In a voice that is deep and merry,
He tells the sweet tails of his long-forgotten trails,
And the travelers they have carried.
He can outline the best and the worst of mankind,
All the forks which have marked their paths,
Of the men who showed courage ‘gainst nature and foe,
And of the burdens on their backs.
frol·ic
/ˈfrälik/
verb
1.
(of an animal or person) play and move about cheerfully, excitedly, or energetically.
"Edward frolicked on the sand"
synonyms: frisk, gambol, cavort, caper, cut capers, sport, scamper, skip, dance, romp, trip, prance
:
:
So sayeth the dictionary. Might I propose that to frolic is less of a movement and more of a mindset? It is the first word which comes to mind when I experience an appreciation for nature that is at once powerful, potent, and painful. I wish to melt into the earth and become part of it somehow....
Tori Aug 2019
The towering oak dipped his crooked fingers into the sky,
His rich green leaves stirring the soft, rose-blushed clouds
Which draped themselves demurely across its glowing expanse.
The luminous half-moon pokes his intrusive eye through
that resplendent array of gold, purple, pink, and yellow,
forewarning the passing of this at once homely and sacred pleasure.
For a time, he must reign, bathing the sky in his stately silver glow.
Though the earth below is singing, the sky is all a’ hush now
and he pulls the veil of slumber o’er the land of that towering oak,
promising to remove his gentle veil one more come dawn.
Tori Jul 2019
It is a sticky night.
Like the watermelon that drips down your chin
Like the humid air that sticks to your skin
Like that song you can name when the first note is hit
Uncomfortable, beautiful
Like the clothes that stick to your back
Because you have clothes
Like the way that our messed-up families stick together
Because you have a family
It is messy, like glue
It is sticky, a sticky summer night
Like all of those nights, long ago
Like the blood that was shed for you, for me, by a stranger
By hundreds of strangers
It’s a legacy and it sticks
And we can only pray that nights such as these will
become a memory, something permanent
a fixed point in time, something that endures
We hope that, even just for a little while
It might just stick around
Tori Apr 2019
He tugged at a snag
On our tattered old sweater
And left but a pile of thread.
Tori Apr 2019
A leprous creature in life and death
with a horrible stench and a panting breath
She files her neatly pedicured claws
Sharpens the teeth in her lip-glossed jaws
In search for the pulsing blood of men
she feeds on their beating hearts and then

moves on....
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