Stirring
it seems the ground is stirring
With those who have been long forgotten
By those who are slowly rotting
The blackened sky silent
in mourning for those lost
The crescent moon somber
as it shines down upon the forsaken
Not a sound, only the stirring
The constant movement, the restlessness
No creaking limbs from barren branches
No mellifluous whispers from the wind
Nothing to mask the stirring
That horrid dreaded stirring
A cold blanket shrouds the grounds
Trying to quell those who are abandoned
Trying to silence them
Trying to lay them to rest
But it is a distasteful embrace
A cold and unpleasant embrace
Tomb to tomb
Grave to grave
Each so similar, yet so different in their ways
A different epitaph
A different life story
But it all ends the same way
With a fleeting thought and a relinquishing sigh
Death gives them a subtle kiss
Before they could ever say goodbye
The air has a bitter taste
That of sorrow and tears
Of those who were once remembered
Of the ones that stir
But as death can never be avoided
And time waits for no man
Slowly, the tear stains on the markers faded
And those that stir are left in waiting
A solemn and grimly sight it is
To see what awaits us all
A dark descent into hollow ground
Where we shall turn from something to nothing
It is a fate that is inevitable
a destiny that is unavoidable
To become the stirring that lies beneath
Where we shall, as well, wait restlessly
But there is something that has been unnoticed
An aspect that has been overlooked
The sweetness
There is something sweet in the air
A light-hearted scent obtruding the trepidation
A superfluous aroma cloaking the anguish
What is that wondrous scent?
What is that which makes the dead stir less?
But a vibrant arrangement
A beautiful bouquet
Of exquisite pink carnations
And lovely blue forget-me-nots
The flowers seem to be smiling
Wistfully smiling
Warming that which is cold
And lifting up spirits that were once so low
In full bloom
they seem to be singing
Singing a soft melody of tranquility
Comforting those that stir below
With a reminder that they are not alone
A reminder that we should all heed
That we will never be forgotten
So long as there are flowers for headstones
We shall never be utterly alone.

From where do we gather such illusions
People’s portraits on medieval displays
with icons on the sides and
all around

it makes sick
that we can have drops in the bucket
to which there is no lid;
and it overflows

I cant pay attention
or want to listen
nothing matters
or makes sense

there is no mound of dirt
there are no mountains
we are no trees
growing
and learning

I found I am obtruding
Against the ceiling
Im like bubble wrap
or a balloon
waiting to blow
or to bloom

I wished I could disintegrate
into a bomb of flowers
like the credits
of the pink panthers

and acknowledge
the illusionary trick
and peoples portraits
on medieval displays

so we talk about speculated numbers
and death in the plague
and its all so vague
waiting to die

for all I know
is I have 95 minutes left in my last class
my body is sore
and no one loves me anymore
and so quickly
be kicked

this is no story I can dig

sooner than be crucified stretched
close inside my self

I was born a gentle soul
Reformed with an old jovial wisdom
Which was corrupted by the first attack
Stripped of my candor and left to meander
Until a visceral skin latched to my back

I watched my rivet dreams vicariously
All the while from side scenes
Spending time refining the premise
The fine hemmed edges
Were sharp yet crude
When tuned to this percentage

The very root of metamorphosis
Became an epitome of what I am
While walking a tight rope
Of Hope's chokehold
Invoking me to stand
Forcing me to look down
With nowhere to land

Echoes of mediocrity only fuel my drive
Staving fires from mere survival
Into the desire to thrive
While every injustice withers and dies
I bide my time refining my form
While the perfect storm subsides

The strengths I hide
Preside just beneath the surface
A revival impulse is convulsive therapy
Leaving me resolute within my purpose

Uncouth is the pretense
To claim and obtruding suspense
Whilst I am colluding and fearful
Whether I reminisce or remain pensive
The time has come to be cheerful

The only power over me
Is what I allow to reside
And keep me preventive
So if I choose to stay inside
It's because I'm designing
The next in line incentive

After I've repented
The only indefatigable witness
To my truth is me and God
And at times I ask myself
Will I know the blister's burden
Or fabricate a facade?

And there he sat
transfixed
with his head
cocked to the side
pressed against
his tense shoulder

His tight chin
cringed upward
shrieking for relief
while his gray mane
draped in the drool
draining from
his dead lips
curled into
the wrinkles of
his withered face

His obtruding veins
Splintered his fragile skin
Into fractured slivers
Like splitting sheets of ice
On a warming winter river
Each flake shriveled
As the blood receded
Fading each pastel color
Into shades of grey

His bushy eyebrows
protruded over
those murky, marbled eyes
with pupils like
creamy, black clouds
lingering faintly amidst
a midnight blue sky

But as he sat
Dead paralyzed
In an eternal lullaby
He still looked alive

Name the structure,
It is your own skin,
Arms beautiful, obtruding
There’s this old heart,
Eating at the centre,
Shaking, with ecstasy and fear,
I don’t want to be so young,
To endure the spectacle of,
Myself constructed,
A home inside of me,
A whole village, and every inhabitant,
Guilty,
Breaking the sticks off my back,
And standing new,
Unafraid, splinters, dug into soft palms,
Holding the body.