"this? Is this a call for engines in the air or wings made of wax? Death would be mo"

Is that what we wake up to every day?

Fast food and gas stations are forever stamped in the corners of my eyes as they are looking through the glass of minimum wage to the red flashing lights of a man hoping to get back to his children safely.

Is life is a pointed dagger then my blade is rusted and dull when I wonder why I even try some days.

Do I dare defend my pride and still demand something more than this? Is this a call for engines in the air or wings made of wax? Death would be more alive than waking up to another day of shampoo commercials and microwave dinners.

You are always whispering in my ear though dear and telling me that you're more than just a particle flown into my imagination from a world so oh very different than ours.

Are your eyes as bright as I imagine? Will the glare from them blind me from the tax collectors whip and will your laughter drown out the screams of onlookers who are throwing peanuts through the bars at my feet?

Will your kiss melt me and cause me to fall into wind like leaves in a storm, a tornado of color and beauty..?

I lay in bed and my eyes close tightly, my breathing slows and thoughts drip into pits men drown themselves in, the murky waters of nihilistic cynicism...

Though my hand will still not be closed around yours when the sun rises, the whisper lets me know you are still awake and searching for me too...

"in faintly perfumed air…"
Melody W 

Tuesday morning, echoing
unsteady midnight transgressions
and unmarked yearning -
worthless to but a few
and even then,
quickly forgotten

Wisps of you linger
in fragmented light,
in still bodies of water,
in faintly perfumed air…

These redwood trees
know my sorrow by name;
their steady branches
beckon me home.

In our brilliance,
we have forgotten
the intricate framework
our lives were built upon.

"And as the night air sighs,"
Melody W 

Unblinking night
illuminated by those
long forgotten auras

We linger together
in unveiling separation,
peeling tangerines in the dark

Wordlessly we wait,
our searching palms
exchanging silent energy

And as the night air sighs,
nestling on our bed,
we embraced oddities
of another kind

strange rivulets trickling
down our upturned faces,
undeniably more than this
faint reminiscence
of tangerines

"the air would be"
Melody W 

Patterns of childhood emerge
as a forgotten splinter -
curious, distorted drolly

In the cool of the day,
we walked through fields
existing only in our dreams

No cry of birds nor distant hum
of languid bees upon new buds
met our ears, yet we felt no alarm

And when our feet pressed
soft indentations upon
rust-colored earth, we knew

the air would be
perfumed with more than
fleeting citrus notes

"the stillness in the air"
Melody W 

the stillness in the air
only seems to amplify these
fading dreams accumulated

like dead flower petals
on the windowsill
that no one bothers to dust anymore.

you wilt in this room of whitewash
and shadows, bearing an eerie resemblance
to a faded ragdoll from a time long ago

drifts of dandelion seeds float in
from the garden below, appearing
as if suspended in mid-thought

carrying with them
pureness of tranquility
embodiment of luminescence -

only to be snatched away,
blown off course through passages
of darkness and light

and forgotten

"an odd rustling in the air,"
Melody W 

October winds always did
make the sparrows
alter their songs;
yet, the deviation
was never great enough
that one would notice

unless, of course,
one were slightly
more in tune
with the subtle tweaks
of the universe on
seemingly ordinary days

Strangely enough,
the least likely person
was always the one
most severely affected,
suddenly trembling in the corner

Once in a seldom while,
(at the least expected time)
when the tide begins to lap hungrily
at pale deformed rocks
encrusted with sea urchins

an odd rustling in the air,
unlike that of the wind
but rather something
different altogether,
can be felt

as babies turn in their cribs
gazing solemnly at
thick starless nights
but never utter a sound

and mothers shiver
at whispers of their own
ephemeral youth reflected
in their babies’ watchful eyes

Next page