Four, almost five a.m. --
The witching hour for those who prey upon the wee minutes of the morning and fool themselves into believing it is still nighttime.
Brains fastidiously pursuing ramblings of false ambitions and heady pipe dreams of successes that are too far away to be real,
(But just real enough that they can nearly be brushed by eager fingertips)
Goals that aren't goals, follies of the highest calibur.
Stars above dance their sparkling song in a silent vibrance,
Inspiring those minds that wander into illusory comfort, for a time;
That or the rocky crags of anxiety that accompany reminiscent thoughts picturing those moments one is most ashamed of.
Northern lights slip across a vast plain, and the mind mumbles on, spitting blood.
You won't be smiling anymore
Once you too feel this betrayed.
Don't worry -- don't hold your breath.
The guillotine will drop quickly.
The knife blade will be fast,
The killing strike lightning personified.
You won't see it
Part of me thinks
This is a mistake
The other part
Remembers how you told me 'no'
Over and over
And how painful it was.
For being drawn in
Who says yes
I would do anything for you.
In blood and tears
You yourself but a child-
Into this world.
From a distance
As I grew.
First a whelp,
Now a wolf.
With every inhale
Of that odorless
And here I am
Watching you die....
You watched me grow
Not long ago....
I don't want to watch you die. But it is either this or die before you.
fury and insecurity are tempered with patience and effort.
spend your days wishing misery on your enemies-
or spend them cultivating your own advancement.
you have two choices: excel or stagnate.
succeed or atrophy.
how brightly does your fire burn?...
do you consume your demons and spit them out ashes?
or do you warm their bones in the cold?
it was a dry mojave afternoon,
with crows cursing shrilly
the streetlamps bearing broken bulbs
and the striped cat sleeping in the sun.
the wind drew frantic breaths,
exhaling dead leaves over the hill
and sending the blackbirds
spiraling into the sky.
a lizard stirred, somniferous almond eyes
gazing lethargically over his rock
and at the old man on the porch
leaning back- impossibly uncomfortable in his rickety wooden chair.
his name was Jackson.
gnarled gray hair mixed with gnarled gray beard
appropriately framing a pinched, ornery visage
and tattered clothes adorned his whisper of a body.
it was his sixty-fourth year here in the desert-
on the fifty-second he'd lost his wife
on the fifty-eighth he'd gained a kitten
named him Waldrop and let him **** the mice and lizards.
'sixty four years is a long time,'
a thought murmured in the back of his head
eyelids peeling back to give a cursory glance to Waldrop
who was stalking the reptile watching him.
he remembered his twentieth birthday
when Edna had first said she loved him
and he remembered that glorious July morning
where she said she was his forever.
he remembered the pain of labor
down in the factory,
and the camaderie with his fellows
chewing tobacco and cursing the bosses.
he remembered the time spent weeping,
but remembered more the time spent laughing
in places miles and miles away
that now seemed imaginary.
exhaustion echoed through tired bones
and he wondered who would feed the cat,
drooping eyes closing one last time
to await the warmth of sunset.