"fleck" poems
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
The sun is a star in someone else's sky
The earth is a dust fleck, drifting on by
The moon is nothingness, just barely there
Between non-existence and thought caught on air.
Maybe you're nothing, and then so am I
But to me you are everything seen by these eyes.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
Sonoran desert
sacred, hot breathed
scorch of footsteps, blood red sands
sun bleached bones and skulls
this wash a hallowed holy ghost
an unnerving place of hiss and fire
molten sun to dry the water
a drowning fever of prickly sweat
last night the Yaqui man you met
undulating in a purification ceremony
lashing energy cords cut
he is laughing like coyote, wild eyed
green the velvet desert peyote
awakened you have come to understand
a universe within a fleck of sand.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
she described it as ice
in her chest
like
a lance that tightroped from
her chest to mine
fought over at the breakfast table
because her end was bigger than mine
or mine had more blood than hers
or she always got to look at my good side
and why couldn’t I look at her without laughing
mother always said it was a blessing
that two people were so close to each other
not through birth
but by journey
and life
and happenstance
two people that tasted grilled cheese the same way
that heard the same voices of joy
loss
despair
but always stuck to the roof of the mouth like peanut butter
and not the generic brand
no
the 10 dollar organic stuff
two people that couldn’t help but
crack jokes at the dinner table
when everyone else was talking about
death because
what is death without life?
she would ask
and everyone would go silent
and float up through the
limitless sky
while we stayed grounded in
the life that whiskey brings
sister
if you ever hear me calling
know that I’d give you the bigger half
every time and that
you may borrow my three-hole puncher
without asking
because
I love you
and love stitches time without holes
and moments without the train station goodbye
and the rocks
well
they will always be rippling the stream so you
can go whitewater rafting and I can write poems
about how you fell in and found
a fleck of gold
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
*The oyster whispers echo
within its own silent shell
Its utters of longing
sought to bejewel
a pearl's essence,
as an ocean's murmur
heaves within its shuck
Some might call it lightly
fragile hope;
a fleck of light in dark
Or just a dream
of an unspoken grain of sand,
a diamond in the rough
someone you used to know ...June 2017
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
rich soil
fleck with a bit of black
dark chocolate
parched summer soil
glossy chestnut brown
unvarnished oak
mahogany flecks
apple pips
varnished cork
dessert palm tree
flecks of acorn shell
his eyes
the most beautiful pair
of eyes
she has seen
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 3:55 PM UTC
*Dear heartache,
I cannot say that I know you well,
I have never been in love
But I have loved,
Have loved deeply and quickly and without question,
Have loved quietly and cowardly,
Have been loved back.
Dear heartache,
I just wanted to know why you're still
Hanging around here,
Why you keep dropping by
When I have guests over,
They never stay once you show up.
Dear heartache,
I've only known you on the surface,
Have never known the right questions to ask
But I have memorized the structure of your being,
Can describe the color of your eyes down to every fleck of red-brown,
Can still feel every callous on your palm when I think about you,
You have become so commonplace.
Dear heartache,
I think I know what you're doing,
Think I have thought my way through your facade,
I think you are in love with love;
Think you have been following her around for so long
That you couldn't bare to let her go now,
Think you always show up too late,
Show up just as she walks out the door.
Dear heartache,
I cannot say that I know you well,
Cannot say that you have made a home for yourself
Somewhere within me,
Can only stand within your reach
And hope that someday while you are chasing love
She will find me.*
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Eloquent april showers kiss her forehead,
Oath-enriched may flowers fleck his cheeks.
& now there’s rosemary bursting from his venus veins---
ashes aligning in those sickly tear-ducts.
( w h y i s h e w e e p i n g ?)
What a coincidence;
her love was her forte
and yet his eyes
were foreign to the music.
My dragon princess is in love
with a sickly raven boy;
and he’s caught a icy cancer. . .
“Raven boy loves his rosemary”
Look, love’s fingers bittersweetly
entwined with death
...are now limp.
The rain is her salvation and his
roots.
Maybe it wasn’t a drought
Maybe it was
a flood.
After all,
there’s no such thing as too much beauty, on venus,
and there's no such thing as too much rain,
in April.
(I'm sorry dragon princess, but not every flower was destined to bloom.)
.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
It's annoying
That I write fullest
As the moon is breaking
At midnight noon
And when the stars
Fleck a paintbrush sky.
Annoying because
I want to be
dreaming
In beaming
sun dials and
Marshmallow clouds
Which swallow me up
Into a rosy pearl.
Annoying because,
Just as I do with the words,
I want to escape the day
Which I can't handle and
ramble
in happy
Nothing.
But this
form of
Escapism
makes me sleepy
and the creeping,
Inescapable day
Ever more... difficult
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Flick a flack fleck--that sound again
Makes me smile every now and then
Each drop always soothes my palm
It always makes me so calm
Ah!I love to hear it sing
It touches me with its ring
Flick a flack fleck--that sound again
Makes me smile every now and then.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
[i'm sorry. i'm not very good at love letters. i've confessed my love to more angels than real people, but please hear me out on this.]
to the girl i ran into yesterday, with love from the girl who ran into you yesterday
i'm pretty sure i'm in love with you.
you left a handprint on my heart (a literal one;
your fingers curved over my collarbone like you were afraid you would break me)
i have cigarette butts for nerve endings
and i'm pretty sure that you must be a lit match
because i haven't felt this alive in seventeen years
please tell me you feel the same way.
i just want to feel your heart beat against mine, and i know we've only just met, i know you will probably never come to this bookstore again,
but if you say no i will pretend that this is a letter to the galaxy
(my favorite constellation is the one stretching across your shoulders;
a thousand and one stars disguised as freckles
play connect the dots with ligaments and fissures)
i will pretend that you are not the sun in my solar system
and okay, maybe i'm being overdramatic but have you ever looked into someone's eyes
and wanted to memorize every fleck of gold you see
i wrote down the things i want to know about you, a wishlist ten miles long
with nothing but your name on it
i wonder how you'd react if i held your hand in public
the sea swelling up to meet us there are wires from my heart to yours
and i know there is approximately an 86.3% chance you will never see this love letter but i wished on a star for something real
and then i ran into you
(i'm sorry again. i hope you enjoy to **** a mockingbird. it's one of my favorites.)
i hope your hair is still a preposterous shade of blue because it makes your eyes look like constellations
do you want to form a galaxy with me?
to the girl i ran into yesterday, who wore bright pink flip flops and had a tattoo of a star on her left anklebone,
i think i'm in love with you
please reply at your earliest convenience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
And after, there is only a gaping emptiness
the familiar ache
The desire to drown myself in soft things
Fill my pockets with pebbles and all the poems my muses will never read
And wade into the Lethe
To the place of the first breath after momentary pain
The liminal gasp between sighs
The first touch after a long absence
Body awakening to memory.
*Welcome weary traveller, you are safe here. Dwell. Abide.
The scrounging scratching crawl you call a life withdraws.
Here,
Float in the fingers of sunlight through glass
The murmur of breath against hair
The glimpse of ripples from a water-strider’s gait.
Here,
You are small and safe
You suffer no harm nor cause it
Your existence has curled in on itself
And blooms with the sunrise.
Here,
Your presence is a fleck on a robin’s egg
The bruise of teeth on a petal
An eyelash in sand
Lost, lingering, and longing.*
The Lethe plucks the pebbles and poems into the current
Your likeness billows with ink in the wake
Adrift, I clutch at your fading hand
But rising, find I do not know this face
Left only with a flicker
Of a stranger’s arms
around my waist.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 9:05 PM UTC
I painted you.
With trembling, amateur precision,
I suffered each line on your face.
Each fleck of sun,
Your candid smile,
Your immediate beauty in the foreground
Of an exceptional ocean.
Stumbling blindly through the days,
Fumbling for the switch
In a punch-drunk, love-sick afternoon.
Apart from you,
Stripped, exposed,
Laid prone on the gurney
With my skull in a vice
And a fist to my stomach.
I can barely stand because of you.
I painted you this afternoon
So I could toil in your gaze.
Pray I am an interesting splatter,
A noticeable blight;
A happy accident on your page.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
If an adjective could describe me
it'd have to be hungry
for obvious reasons
cause I ******* love my food
but for poetic reasons
cause I often elude
I have hungry ears
and a hungry soul
and I'm so **** hungry
you don't even know
but you do
cause you can see it in my eyes
My hunger is that fleck of white,
that element of surprise
I have a hungry mouth
and a hungry mind
and I'm so **** hungry
and I'm so **** blind
cause I want and I need
and I grasp and I touch
I'm hungry for life
and I crave oh so much
Hungry
is my middle name
Hungry
has always been the game
I play
with minds
like meanings of names
dynamic and static
Hungry
Feed me
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
I am the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is
done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
world's food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And
then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget. The best of me is ****** out and wasted.
I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and
makes me work and give up what I have. And I
forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red
drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world
say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a
sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.
2.5k
Scraping off
The smiling Santa Claus faces
Dim hope fading
With each metallic fleck
Flicked onto the kitchen floor
Yet, she will buy more
Always more
And always the same numbers
On the gas station tickets
She buys with a bag of chips
And gas-station humus
With gas-station pop,
In a gas-station cup -
Too large to hold in one hand -
That she fills to the brim
With hope
She never lets herself
Get to empty
She fills her soul with
Perpetual certainty
That one day, she’s gotta win
She’s just gotta
So she plays the game
Plays the odds
Fills her cup
Fills up her tank
Drives to two, three, four
Thankless jobs
And never lets her soul
Get to empty
She’s just gotta win
Fate has gotta give in
To her sheer ambition,
She knows it in her bones
Maybe not this time,
or next time
…or the time after
But soon
…definitely soon
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 8:05 PM UTC
Flee the Ghetto
Times and Motions
Whirls and Swirls
Around the universe
we twirls
Great Space is black
all pinpoint lights
So cold and bleak
through all the night
Our best minds sit
and stare in awe
In altars, perched
on mountains tall
Seeking vistas,
Planets fine
Warm and wet
With Oceans Brine
Pure, swept With winds
fresh and new
A Paradise,
unblemished dew.
For we must flee
This planet small
Too many we
and soon the fall
Is eminent
if not we go
and refuge find
Pray God bestow
While we have time
To start anew
To try again
for we were fools
And ruined the place
gave us in Love
God’’s great gift
from Heav'n above
Dear Earth, fair home
All blessings be
Beloved of Man
On bended knee
We bow to you
You fleck of rock
You grain of sand
That bears our flock
Our precious home
for man to stand
and look around
and understand
How fragile’s life
A gift so rare
For all we’ve found
Of life Is here
So search brave priests
of this new age
of our demise
you are the sage
Please Save us guys*
you honored few
To you we cry
it’’s up to you
For we poor clods
have fought, and ruined
This grant from God
Destroyed too soon.
Find us a home
Another womb
Another Harbor
Please find one soon
For us to raise
our children strong
and try to teach them
right from wrong
That black or white
means not at all
that violence
precedes a fall
Too many players
Too small a stage
A madness caused
A screaming rage.
Our history
A tale of woe
Of endless wars
Tombstones in rows.
Our weapons might
Now reaches all
no refuge from
the killing fall
You made those things
Those killer toys
Now turn your brains
Look outward boys!
We need your help
and God’’s as well
This fate to turn,
This ride to hell
For we have learned
to dread the sight
of timeless darkness
endless night
We need some friends
To fight and play
Another species
Help us pray
Or we will end.
and all will turn
to endless blackness
Hell returned.
Justa Civileon 2003
* gender neutral on the "guys"
Not one of my uppiest rambles but I never was a light person
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:12 AM UTC
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and reappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin
That rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
2k
your symptoms are mine. we attach dead cells to living gods, you and i.
Golgotha spawn, writhe in leather trousers
to harlequin the marrow of our dire pipes !
to leap and jeer in tandem
that's how love does the impossible
with your mundane.
we are the abattoir of our stoic cow
your symptoms are mine. i see how you might think me mad; you not i.
but this is the dream fleck of your unkissed
a sweltering bloat of frozen hope
flogging the wolf in a gleam
of campfire exodus
and dust.
your nexus is the heart of the most free, a slim gorge of Krakens
yawning fresh hell and fjords of unconquerable silence.
yours is the tomb I am used too.
where we resurrect
we die laughing.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
Amongst the dying, amongst the rage,
within the thousand souls and a thousand more,
twisting in their own remorse,
I found so heavenly a voice, so powerfully calm,
not once, not twice, but again, again and again did I fall.
I fell for that voice, that voice, who?
Was it a lone soldier, finding solace in the aftermath?
Was it a villain, freed from the confines of a life long lost at the hands of rage, insanity?
Was it the common man who stayed untouched, or was it one who found dreams beyond wonder?
Was it a mother's lullaby, a sister's requiem, a daughter's salute?
Lying in blood, in smoke and scream, it swept up each fleck of horror,
carrying, in gentle hands, perhaps, every sin and every lie, obligation and grief,
to the pinnacle of truth seen just beyond the clouds;
lying there, I'd never felt smaller.
There it was, the mountain of judgement, a soldier for truth,
and the voice delivered to it every excruciating injustice and the tears of the evil, of the good and the poor.
That voice, that voice! Sing again, sing forever more,
the anthem of salvation that echoed through the burning woods.
And so I ask,
why do you sing? Who is it that hears you?
You sing for your lover, your mentor, your child?
Do you sing for every warrior lost to time's manipulation?
Do you sing for every survivor, galvanised, everlasting, immortal?
Do you sing for the gods and their reckless plans?
Or perhaps, for yourself? O Voice, god, merciful god,
the melody you shower upon these bloodied lands,
knows not how undeserving we are to hear its splendour.
I asked who you were, but now, I only ask,
that you walk past our corpses and say not a word.
But merely sing, sing as you have,
and never be weak to slip in our blood.
But to find your way out of this horror, this world of the doomed,
and find a dream long forgotten:
The dream of a soldier's unconditional smile,
the dream of a mother's undying pride;
The dream of two lovers, and their unison unhindered,
The dream of every villain to turn back the waves of time.
The dream of every fighter, for justice or survival, to find peace among the peaceful,
The dream of every sister who marched by the bodies, longing for his blissful return from our land.
The dream of every daughter who arose amongst the fallen, to live free and not fight;
And the dream of the common man, to soar victorious, to see sights unknown, to suffer and rise, to end and begin.
And as you walk, I see, you are not far.
Or perhaps, what I see,
Perhaps it's a dream.
O Voice, god, merciful god,
Sing.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
My brow furrowed as she read my palm
and whispered of growing interest.
"What?" I asked; I had my qualms
about the foretelling of a future
I haven't decided to live.
But I smell the darkness in the incense.
I trace the tendrils of the incense
with forehead firmly within my palm.
The streets below are live
with persons of little interest,
hustling toward a fuller future.
Renew me, my qualms.
Not that I had qualms,
banana-flavored incense
replacing patois in my future.
The lurid waves slide over my palm.
instill a touch of colder interest.
With each sandy step, I live.
And as the water fills my shoes, I live.
When I quietly lose interest
the ocean shows it too has qualms.
The brine coalesces like incense
as my nails dig into the skin of my palm.
For I seek a better future
than the unforgiving future
that chose not to live.
The salt stings the holes in my palm
and instantly I have no qualms,
just a lingering fleck of incense
arousing mild interest.
The ocean betrayed not the slightest interest
being the shepherd of my future.
Rivulets of water became the incense
That I would breathe to live.
Instinct expressed fervent qualms,
as I pressed my mouth with my open palm.
It was the incense in which I held the most interest.
Her finger traced my palm, mumbling of a better future
ahead for me to live, free from petty qualms.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
With darkness came a wisp;
barely a flick, a fleck of pristine snow
drifting towards earth to pile in
mounds, hills, mountains
ready for play as darkness came
The slippery hill ran fast beneath my plastic shield;
standing, swaying, falling down
caught in the arms of winter
and brought down softly as darkness came
Foreboding twilight
the bottom, the nadir of the day
when all creatures flee into their homes
and those unfortunate not to have one
perish
as darkness came
Hot chocolate frothing, boiling,
ready for cold lips to return and sip warm life
as the sweet splendid smell
slides into nostrils and eyes close in peace as darkness came
The fire crackling, breaking,
untamed and wild giving warmth
to all who gather around the amber flames
eating the heat as darkness came
A kiss, a switch,
the lights went out throughout the house;
Smothered in blankets,
silence and darkness but for a light
softly, mildly glowing
throughout the night to keep me safe
as darkness came.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
i breathe out & the world is calm. we are standing waves in the sea. i am a long distance, a collection of lip movements, and all associated aches. you were a fleck of snow i barely even saw, and the ensuing onslaught of winter. plans turn around, often; we stick no closer to 'em than our moralities- i knew what i believed, just some other day: i believed i could roll out of the feeling of wakelessness that i'd thought you endowed upon my eyelids. you were prying them open, though, and i was the one at force. "sleep, my fears and doubts", i would call to myself -round midnight- "sleep and you may escape, or somehow come closer to what you're not sure if you seek".
but my plans, moralities and i, all ambiguous at best, changed. i can't pinpoint why. you said "maybe you can smell my dying, from all that way" i said i hoped not, that i could sense you but you just couldn't tell you were flourishing.
in the heat, i would make out daydreams like dialogue, spread sense like contrails: seemingly cohesive monuments to my bearing, left out to dissipate. snowfields on sunlit afternoons. but you, you you you you you, you stay heavy-stuck to the ground through cycling seasons. variation, only nondecreasing patterns in my everyday thought. inconsistence, only meaningful or meaningless. no pain, just ache all the same.
finally, in month's transitions, i found meaning (or its absence) and realised each was a facet of the other. that all facets were tiny jewels, set into the world, puzzle-piece mirrors set just. right., to reflect the gleaming bright pearl inset upon the other side of our tiny universe, each light another stroke of your portraiture, and i found longing: to find the unknown, through all things ordinary.
and you were, at once, more than a question-mark and the statement of my circles through days. you were the taste of waking, without sharp slice of reality. you were a mirror, hung in front of i, also reflecting; and i saw eternity unfold in us each. you were, and are still, peace on the shoreline. and i was, and am still, drowning, but i can make out sand on the horizonline.
so, i'll just keep afloat, if you can do the same.
so, i just won't go changin',
shine brighter with each passing day.
smile.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC