"conflates" poems
The fleeting moment when
Dusk conflates with the rising dawn
And all that was ever loud
Falls, to a million tiny pieces, at the feet of morning.
Her still quiet
Tears apart the knick-knack thoughts
That you had displayed
Like a dreamscape reflection,
Spread like ashes on the windowsill.
The wind breathes soft
On the back of your neck and behind your ears
Ghost kisses under the blanket of day.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
In sparkling eyes love conflates
into each empty dinner plate
I could only wish to feel the heat
Of comfort at the kitchen's feet
Of happiness in an empty bowl
And the satisfaction of filled souls
But we sit hollowed from inside out
Head on to each beastly route
-Emperor of feeble epiphanies
Sell me each lightened efficacy
And maybe then we won't stare so low
From the tips of our utensils, we had honed
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 12:37 AM UTC
The sounds conflate around me-
Haunting my ear drums,
Taunting my senses.
The sounds conflate around me-
Intoxicating me soul,
Lifting me into the comfort of the night.
The smooth and heavy darkness-
The thin air and swiftness-
The sounds lift all into nothing.
The sounds are everything, yet nothing.
They put the soul to rest,
A night time lullaby to bring peace to even the most bureded soul.
It conflates heavily and intoxicates fully.
This, until the end has been met .
This serene darkness,it all rests within this eternal and forgiving atmosphere.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
*the worlds illness so pervasive,
the pandemic horror stories are my-brain-endemic,
so pervasive, every ache, tremor, is now virally suspected,
proof that my customized angel of death has arrived, I’m seizing up.
the latest wave session of walking depression, conflates both sides
of my brain, the intersection at right, left, the intellect is mowed
down with woe-down, by the stark reality of emergency facts,
apex or art, looking at months and lives ever trembilzed.
don’t even bother like I did at early firsts, when?
by asking where shelter, the raison d'être of my existence,
the poetry no longer synapses, the currents loop over and over,
the intellectual processes neutered by sadness virus un-encountered.
once upon a time I thought, even believed, that my life’s inquiry,
was answerable, with customized solutions for each,
but now, don’t believe in shelter of any kind, no,
acknowledging I’m so lost, no recovery efforts,
will be attempted.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 1:44 PM UTC