Let my words burn and catch fire
to better reach you in the high tower
propel callous thinking to new heights
in order to teach the biased few.

Do not roughly misconstrue
the sacred meaning of life
since it is meant to be this
and not made wholly out of that.

We were born in a broke down palace
where purpose is disagreement
and forgiveness in all its charm
has become worth less than a fraction.

Nostalgia is what anchors me
gentle reminders of a more simple life
where the minutes drifted through
and I couldn't process time.
Now, I am overwhelmed
when youth has sheltered me
and blessings were so easily overlooked.

Let us submit to fate
both you and I
we were never meant to live
and never resigned to die.

Our hands crafted to gather
then push far away
all those fragile little things
that raise our emotions high.

To say we truly understand
is to be understated,
and to live on those terms
is bound to be a lie.

I am dead

Or perhaps---
I am not dead enough

Remember me once,
if memory is kind,
your small song bird.

Chorused stories that I once happily sung for you

Filling a house which made it a home

With my echoes of voice
that heightened ceilings, and breached the walls

And you answered back, encouraged me, with silence.

Your form merged into rigid countenance, face hidden behind the folded others.

 

My song--- was it enough to provide me with your love

Tell me please because I cannot hear you

Soil has no speakers, only the quiet ones with distilled tongues

And life shall be its only witness

 

Truly my hidden pain was your sordid gain

Has my late dowry increased your love for me

Dusty dollars of faded ghosts that once carried with them, morality

Sadly, there was never enough time, never enough to hold for ourselves

So the time has come for your voice

I’m so afraid of the darkness, my bed is hard and cold, where are all the comforts I once knew

I ask you please, begin--- there can be no shame when I am your only audience

Do not fail, the reach is too great in some other way

Sing me a song father, sing me back to sleep.

Blink first please
I need this win
when you're always right
the argument will never end.

What bookends, are we:
you, a verbal conquistador---
who seeks to conquer the conversation
and I, an unwavering peacemaker---
who extends the olive branch
ready to give right in.

It is a vacant place now
this world didn't deserve you
you were incandescent in nature,
when all the lights went out.

The lies they told you
were designed to hold you
the wounds that never healed
you wouldn't speak of them;
you wore your camouflage daily
and I never understood,
how that smile was your tourniquet.

Rose,
what creature
of creation are you?
the pale silent canvas
that invites artist's touch
starving talent
that wants for stale bread
a still life waiting for purpose
or become the unfinished landscape
as sadness paints your face
eternity shrouded in layers
in a blue period of self-discovery.