spring has taken
the shape of a wounded coyote...

forcing a layered film
of something very dangerous
to hide in the bulb of each joss flower…

a brutal coercion made pure
by the ghost of the ending winter...

each day has forced warmth
upon me as if it were a ritual,

the annual harvest of my sanity.

there is a lovely green lotus

unfolding from the center of his eye,

as if the iris that looks upon my desperate body

is the darkened water from which it sprouts...

he looks upon every
disturbing part of me
with faith,

as if I were never dangerous; forever delicate...

when we stare into
one another, the thousand
ghosts of everything
I am ashamed of become pacified...

if I told you I died 5 times today,
would you believe me?

now,
in the horizon there,
my passion hangs on
a weak branch
stained of copper.

oh,
so timeless is the upset of ruin...
feeding the crows who leave
their feathers upon me,
making me black...

he has viewed me as
a feathered dune
in the quiet desert.

as if my body
were to constantly pile
and brush away
in a romantic dance.

this wild,
yet golden,
landscape seems to be
a panorama of the summer deity.

I fear,
though,
he will push his
whisper upon me,
and I will erupt
in grains of misfortune...

as I am numbed in euphoria by
the closeness of his embrace,
the eclipse which held me in paralysis
slowly bleeds in the sky
as it anchors a crescent light of passion.

oh, he has held the disaster of my body
in his palm and has laid me naked upon him.

tucked neatly among the webbings of his fingers
is a whispering lily that sings me to sleep.

the sphere of black,
fixated upon the sky,
is melting...

I weep to see his loving eyes
pour over the deprived valley
that is the entirety of my being.

yet...
It is as if this man,
and his exposed nakedness encompassing me,
is the coming season of warmth
which teaches me nourishment...

the clouds float with a sense of melancholy this day,
leaving a lingering sensation of unease echoing below
the well of my insomnia...

the eclipse has cast a dulling shade upon my adulthood.
Where I once felt the ember of passion,
there now lays bare a garden of wilting lavender...

the pain rampant to my emptied faith,
showered upon a cautious bed of weeping lilies,
loots a once blissful child
whom begs to **** the relic sun...

Meet me among the numbing fields
where the cream narcissus grows.

Where my desperate human voice sings
against the flow of the autumn winds.

Do you hear the pillars of my empathy crumbling?

The wicked Imbolc has passed,
leaving me naked and sick in the light
of longer days.

Yellow-trumpeted blooms of each joss flower
are caught swaying to the emptying sounds
of my apathy.

Where I have been patiently waiting for
the flowering blood of hyacinth.

I can feel her love the way I feel the desert winds
of a tangerine evening hurling off the mountains
as they reach for the end of the summer solstice.

She sings beneath the bridge of god.

Oh, how spirits that make the nature of whispers
known to my fleshly ears dance to her innocent voice.

I can see her crown among the thorned rose vista,
****** by her favoring tobacco musk,
and it cascades about the once savage lands
of the wanning moon.

Her crown is redolent
with the astral fragerence of eden.

I have walked past the dawn
and gazed upon the serpent of the sea,
it has been raised only to bow before her loving words.

Oh, what peace she brings,
and how effortlessly I see the maiden,
for I must hear her
sing beneath the bridge of god.

He is a talking flower with lips
made of curving petals.

Begging to hold his hand - which is a lovely saturation of pollen - is my unknown sunset quietly falling over him.

I never knew I wanted so deeply to feel him, now there seems to exist a safety within my thoughts I never knew possible.

In a way that is purely fantasy,
he spins the world so fast I’ve fallen off it.

Even when he walks he dances,
allowing me to slowly rotate in the vortex of his spirit.

How could I ever show him...

How could I ever let him see,
how he is the sinking throat
of dawn blessing me with vision,
and the medicine of my now fading paranoia.