Effortless the gaze
the polished head portrays,

and lays upon me, from
a world of granite.

With eyes of grey it has
seen enough to confess

jealousy beyond itself, which
would be mine
if I were in its place—

still, the head is earnest,
and with faith.

Set beside a white cross
painted black, a dove attached
retaining creamy pureness.

If what's beneath the head
shall crumble, it will be okay.

If not, dispose
of it, as if giving up
an old toy.

Man about house;
king of composure,
cleanliness,

charity backfired, or
minimal return.

All above or none at all—
thoughtful disposer,

I keep a clean cage.

Like a sunrise after
too much coffee. When
hangover is gone,

or punching you
in the face.

Eyes protected, because
this poem is about sunrise,

and I am of punctual nature,
a procedure that must occur.

An option to defer,
a referee and an ounce of

hurt, yet a
comfortable situation.

I never want to get burnt again.
White doves no desire for them

if they cost too much
or manipulate economy.

Beg my pardon, I am
stressed and mean no harm.

Twist my arm I fold when I fold
and right now I am holding on.

what cure can be found in
a band-aid but to slowly heal,
be it a small enough wound.

A large disaster, a surgical mind,
a black hat, perhaps?

Hero, villain, that is what I am,
a man—

Medication.

"Google! Tell me
what time it is."

Another frenzy, or
take it to go.

Out of pocket, or
on the other hand lavender:
a protection breed.

Go away
goosebumps
caressing my
sanctum,

allow blessed to
restrict silliness, rapping
monstrously at my door,

disenchantment
in all dire obsessions,

bleak outlets, and placid
outcries.

Told to rest—

an inkling to keep
going.

Out of the fire,
quick! into dawn—

passion,
and point of faith.

Digging
at the heart
for moisture
in the dirt,

curtains turning gold
from yellow sunlight.

If these years
were not strategically
blessed,

were a larger
paradigm deposited,

such time
would find me dead,
swallowed up.

Lightning could
strike, or a puddle
may blush,

a hole in the path
could take away our
chances,

but magic is
magic.

—

Will you
marry me, karma?

Our lives
are like cardboard
boxes,

there's only so much
they can retain.

If the pressure's
too great

it will break,
shattering what's
inside.

I loved you
like childhood,

but I guess
we all have to grow up
sometimes.

Wanting to go back to sleep
I argue with the sun,

bed sheets mimicking rude hand
gestures—

and already, these
coiled memories are unraveling themselves

like intestines from a soldier's
stomach.