the rains trinkets
leaving the world unheard
leaving the word unsaid
yet leaving nothing but puddles
filling the empty lots
where you'd had filled
where there you'd been thrilled
from the rain; nothing but puddles
falling into drains
down the streets gutters
up the gorges, flooding
and ringing in the puddles
as the fall falls down on me
the rain falls as well
the rain falls to swell
the woodwork you've bored me out of.
Our hallow hollers have no cause, as they echo than let go through the vacant ears of political scholars.
Friends may only but listen closely, as only will these fires die before our dead and vacant eyes, as lost days leave but a haze of incurable, unquenchable emptiness.
Walk into the rays of a sun that now bleeds upon our technological greed.
If a soul is to be free than flee.
No heroes to be in this immaculate tragedy of magnetic captivity.
Tragically bleeding from the molds of the machinery.
It's binary blasphemy, as i am quietly tapping the songs of lost dreams, while clutching the trinkets my lovers bring.
But there is a place inside, where the zeros are the ones, and blue suns fall upon gas skies
Where we rise to the shame, and reprise in the strain of everything you never thought it was.
Always to return from whence it came, in a beautiful foray of the same.
In dull radiance he came to be, humbled in the belittle of broken, and dying trees, he gleams, in the darkly unseen seams of beautiful, beautifully, rippling through his being, where even the stars shall sing of dustly dreams, twisting and drifting into the lully, uplifting, sinking of doubt, as he drown in an endless ocean of sound, precision thoughts, but not, to be gone in his lossless spawn, of the epiphanies sprawled upon his heart, and from the dead Earth he grew, born anew, in the molten fluid of lucid wounds, strewn about in floating tombs, shattered and scattered upon the planets, as the latter scavenged trinkets of testimonial pull, in the disharmonious hum from black holes, crafting his soul, in the gentleful stroll, to existence.
On this humid summer night,
heartbreak is even more painful:
here you lie scattered
in trinkets and baubles.
Half your name on an airplane tag;
Old diary with
hurriedly noted recipes;
A bangle whose
other in pair is now lost;
The cherished handbag,
hidden away behind clothes;
That first scarf I bought for you.
You lie scattered like this
here, in every shadow and dream:
why, Spirits, this fate for us?