"purloins" poems
Death come marching in March.
The darkest night with full moon above.
With gloved hands, Death purloins my loved ones.
Takes their coins so they may join the soigne march.
I hear the dull sound of feet over quiet whispers.
Sensing dread before I see the sight.
Death conducting the dead, while abducting new souls.
The march threads away through the night.
Death is a relentless one. The dark menace in an endless pursuit
It becomes clearer as the march gets nearer.
Death hopes to pull up my grass roots
An rope my untethered spirit, whether I consent or not.
Death will not yield to anyone, and I am no exception.
My fate has been sealed. A deadline one can not be late for.
If my body is stubborn, and won't let me give in.
Death will twinge me until I am unhinged.
Each year, Death comes in March
Each year, I watch Death march away.
Each year, Death gets closer.
This year, I will go marching in March.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
Jesus Christ I was made with a monster inside of me.
It’s an enemy.
An uninvited guest, closer than my shadow; a “scientist gone mad” concoction settling and putting roots into every inch of me.
It’s a home wrecking unkempt roommate who defaces your property, ***** your man, then shows up to fist fight at four in the morning.
It’s something that's created a bed in my chest and a toilet in my brain.
Lounged back in its moth-eaten recliner, flipping eagerly through all of my channels while sipping its drink; it is something that is always with me.
It shares what I touch and what I eat; speaking literally, it goes fifty-fifty on every diminutive measly thing.
Cheek by jowl in front of the mirror and dressed in the same outfit, my villainous lowdown twin sister, right there next to me.
It has earmarks of a mother who I am to take orders from or else I can't laugh with my friends or play Nintendo for six weeks, where she tells me to change my clothes three times before breakfast, where I am unable to act appropriately.
Awaken daily by that specific detrimental type of early morning sickness, where the cold-hearted ***** is always with me.
Able to hold a candle to a man that makes you cry and gazes at your best friends, where he makes you feel dejected and ever short.
Where he purloins your spirit and hawks on the fire in your belly; forcing you to allow him to make you feel that way and it's that specific muddy stain on a white T-shirt.
Wash after wash, he is always ******* with me.
It’s the fog that glazes over the roads and hides the trees at four o’clock in the morning during your drive through Pennsylvania.
Whenever the birds sleep until the woods are illuminated by sunlight.
It’s the reason for the high beams that are always on and always bright.
And they are always with me.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
synagogue bells jar and outside is the
color of green, mist enshrouds moss
macadamized in young wall;
beating back to lips, a paler hue of scorched red,
a moment twists, hurries back to
the shell of a modest hour,
rearing in its tender arms, tantric ***
of rain and tendril. tenuous wind swiftly
purloins sound
submerging the world in picker-patter,
the moon fronts and the sun
behind — this is my world and within
its breast, the riverrun stride in between
stone packs its smell of mud
clotheslines full with heavy fabric
weighed down to intent and inertia,
dragged down to sleep and dream
as the hourly siren tolls somewhere that
does not have a beacon, a name
even, blaming only the shadow frittering
back to its console, pinning us
down to the calm weather we sing
about in the afternoon — reaping
in the twilight,
a cold-mouthed Hefeweizen!
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
That which
Sounds like footsteps on the stairs of my body
Knocks at the door of my heart
Brews potions in the *** of my soul
That which
Purloins my sleep
Wets my eyes
You saying would make die happy
That which
Twists my stomach in knots
Hitches my breaths shallow
Makes that beneath my ribs to stop at your sight
I could call it a wave
But it do more than flow in it
I could call it the sun
But I do more than blossom beneath it
I could call it a feeling
But I could not explain it
Dear one
Please you tell me it's name
©_HerOutspokenMind ||ThatWhichHasNoName
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 8:44 AM UTC