"pyrite" poems
You don't know me
The places I wanna see
The things I want to know
What I want to be told
No, you don't know me
You can't hold me
Or tell me everything's alright
When I know you hold her
Like you used to hold me
You tell her she's made of gold
You know her favorite food, her favorite dress
And all the other things
That you don't know about me
I know you've memorized
Her face, Her voice
Yet when you turn around
Can you even remember my name?
I guess it's too much to ask
For redamancy these days
As loyalty has gone out the window
A word of the past
But you used to tell me
That I was made of gold
And that in your arms
I was only yours to hold
But your hands have roamed
So far away from me
And it's not fair
To make me watch
As you do with her
All you did with me
We used to talk about the future
But in a single heartbeat
You have changed our destiny
All those words of yours
Come back and haunt me
Everytime you called me beautiful,
Was it just practice for telling her?
Well you were right about one thing
I am made of gold
And that girl of yours
No matter how much you try
To mold her into me
She will only ever be pyrite
Just a cheap imitation
Of the treasure you will never hold
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
don't understand me. this is not for you. It's for you.
my Gemini shin splints are pirates. hopeless Romans, romantically dismantling
the things you Undo. the things you You.
I Doctor in your Seuss canal.
with a frontal lobe, more Job
than a postage stamp -
in this Day and Age.
It's grey and rage -
with the tooth torn
out !
Out
through the probable snout
of the next mummified god-king
of our interlocking rot...
our chamber pots
spotting the oft begot good
of our evil
Mummenschanz
we are crepes' rue; yet we roulette best
in Typhoons
from murk
placid.
with 2.8 kids
and damp
matches.
we are
struck in a gale
of flaccid
dumb as a Belle of the Ball
that Squares
a Rube
with an Ism.... from Ix.
sometimes.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
She was like the iron pyrite
The teacher asked them to examine, and describe;
Cold, dense and prickly,
Difficult to love.
Given the right light
And a gentle handling,
Oh, how she'd sparkle,
But in that place, expectations and sensory overload
rendered her lumpen, and resistant.
Removed from her books and her inner world - all she needed -
And placed in a maelstrom,
She was bewildered and forlorn.
Un-cooperative, they called her,
And the teachers loved the other gems instead,
Pretty little nuggets; Ruby, Jasper, Jade.
Two years of discouragement and dislike
And even the tentative sparkles had darkened.
The other gems enjoyed each other
And moved away from her magnetic pull,
sensing difference.
No outright meanness, not yet,
But hints were brewing, whispers had started
And she wandered alone, in the playground,
Talking to the seagulls, and singing to herself.
The teachers only wanted conformity
And called her parents to voice concern
about her lack of friends.
Had they asked her, allowed her to have a say
She would have told them it didn't matter
But they were determined that it did, to them, if not to her,
And her parents were added to the burden of people
Worried and disappointed, watching.
She knew now, she was different, she had always known but never minded,
Now it was a problem. She didn't fit,
Like that scratchy purple uniform, around her chubby waist
Food didn't judge, dislike or condemn.
That life ended, and a new struggle, in a new school, began.
This was harder; the meanness was apparent now,
Difference wasn't tolerated
And someone wandering alone was a target.
She found a place to hide, behind a staircase, with a book,
But they found her, removed her and patrolled her only refuge
Forcing her to submit to the torture.
Every day was a war zone,
So she found another way, and embraced ill-health, stealthily
Spraying deodorant directly into her own face
induced asthma attacks; and not all those ear infections were real,
She was an accomplished actress.
She got through it, millions do.
She found her own place, her own friends in her own time.
Among Onyx, Jet and Tigers Eye
Her darkness didn't mark her out as different,
And all that fake illness
Was great prep for theatre,
Where she was able to return to her inner world,
And no-one cared if you feigned madness
Or embraced the real thing.
Difference was celebrated,
The whispers now, were that she had a great stage presence,
And a talent to be nurtured,
Not a difference to be despised.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
I seem to prefer the cold
As if to sooth my bruised heart
So it freezes and no longer bleeds
Frozen around and between the parts
Because a cold heart is still whole
Even if it can no longer feel
When the warmth has been lost
Losing its attraction to appeal
Only a fool would fall in love
Having the intention to steal
This fool's gold of a heart away
One that has been shut and sealed
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 2:27 PM UTC
My heart's so tied up
I can hardly breathe.
It seems, to me, that every scent is yours
every sight or sound,
song lyric or strip of poetry
relates back to you and the knot in my chest.
I best recruit a young sailor
to untie and bend these cravings.
These faint and vague desires
not to kiss you
nor to **** you
but to see you, lay with you, be with you.
That is what I crave daily,
what I need to loosen this knot.
*But
the knot
just
tightens.*
I crave to see you alone on a walk
or you with others
or you with me.
I especially crave to see you with me.
O' that which I'd give
to see you with me.
It must have been the grass
or the beers
or the LSD
because no natural occasion could make me feel this way.
I first heard you before I saw,
singing across the fence.
Your voice was like cream in hot coffee
scintillating, mesmerizing
fascinating, and light;
a drop of sweet in the dark, dark bitter.
I never knew that drinking coffee black
would soon become impossible.
*Everything is
bitter
when you've tasted
sweet.*
It's something in the way you visibly think
about the world and
others actions and
everything I say and do; something in the way you care.
It's something in the way you spit,
claiming the concrete as your own, a primal beast.
You are an incarnadine being,
a vastly deep creature whose
curls I can be lost in for
hours and days if not for those eyes.
Those eyes steal me with every glance,
dark mines of copper and fool's gold.
But pyrite is the sheen to which my mind melts,
and Scorpio sun signs
paint the mystique
that keeps me awake and alert all through the night
You keep me awake and alert,
waiting for the next move.
Yes, I'd be a liar if I said I felt friendship for you
and a heretic if I
dared to touch you.
But you dare to touch me. Every day,
you brush your hand 'gainst my leg,
grab my shoulder and hold,
knock your knee upon mine,
you push me gently,
but I die when you grab my thigh,
grab my thigh and squeeze it tightly
reassuring me that you're there
you're real
you're caring for me
and when the goodbyes come
**** the goodbyes*
you hug me so closely and so tightly
that my heart,
knotted as it is,
beats faster than it ever has.
I swear that it beats
faster than it ever could.
And in this speed, this conflagration of emotion,
I feel how the knot
only tightens to where
even the youngest sailor lacks the nimbility to loosen it.
I swear that it's much
tighter than it ever was;
that no one has stressed my mind so,
kept my heart strained to where it
beats
faster than it ever could,
it beats faster yet, than the
rush of a train upon steel.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
in the east
a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer
his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer.
he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos
a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended.
his bonds, repaired.
in the west -
a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house -
to a furnace of blank stares.
it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for.
it leads to a breach.
weary of " who knows ? "
a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood.
it rankles the vision...
it plots despair.
in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There -
we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly...
and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair
we vanquish any Southland
and the warm sun
frosts a glass eye
like pyrite.
and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
I have used up all my tokens
and squandered all my pardons;
all that’s left is tarnished pyrite
and a jewellery box for two.
For I will tear your heart out
and feed it to the coyotes;
you may be the one for me,
but I’m no good for you.
As the field runs crimson
I’ll proceed to crack your spirit.
I know that this is foolish,
but love - this is all I know.
If the moon would make a bargain
on the dust that seals up fractures,
I would strip my backbone
reaching out to make it so;
I would mend each tiny crevice
- plant hydrangeas in the darkness,
but without a new foundation
it is all still frail and makeshift;
and each compounding weight is
all crushed-guts and shattered-statements.
Again we’re set a whirling;
we can’t recognize our faces.
The strongest tree is only paper
and my convoluted nature
is just a fallacy I’ve built to house,
my fear of what is true.
So, we’ll dance until our knees split,
you’ll repeat that we’re a unit
and as I kick the chair out
choke a final, “i love You.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Amidst staggered breaths
my fragile frame converts to dust.
Oak entombs the ashen ruins
of a long awaited
Us.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
1.i took a breath, punched the door. he asked if it helped at all,
rubbed his temples when i did it again,
told me to call him when i felt like talking,
we havent spoken since. he isnt important to this story.
what matters is how unsafe i feel just saying your name, how unreal
you make me feel. imaginary and implausible. wish fulfillment so blatant
im amazed i ever thought i was something more
than a myth.
2. i can't give you what you want/couldn't give you what you want. something like a romance film,
candles on the shore,
not blown out by ocean winds.
something where i cry your name or
kiss you when you shout
instead of screaming back,
perfect plaster queen crumbling
for no one but you.
where i sing and you sigh.
where at least one of us cares.
3. im still not sure who's to blame
my heart is swollen my hands are bloated there is motor oil
pooling in the hollow of my palms, did you do this to me?
did i unravel you? im still not sure what happened. i stopped asking for help a long time ago
4. i do not feel safe.
you are behind me always.
i am sweating bullets and you are loading your gun.
you are a breakdown waiting to happen.
you are my genes planning treason.
5. you're a fake.you're a fake.you're a fake.
buying me coffee and spitting down my throat like
it evens out in the end.you're so kind.you say youd never hurt me as if
i couldnt see my ******* intestines in your fist. you're a fake.
you're pyrite, fool's gold,
costume jewelry cutting off circulation to my hand.
6. i know everything sounds the same.
i know i give the same speech every time.
i know repetition is getting old and
six breakdowns in the same month is
overdoing it. i was trained from birth to **** up my life
and im exceeding expectations.
7. [image: memorial day card,
'we had nothing worth remembering' inside,
hallmark logo on the back]
8. i didnt really want to be real anyway
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
I often speak
of the holy:
the high and mighty
the hands that guide me-
because that stuff never leaves you
when your oldest memory
is writing stolen stories in the back pews
(next to you)
of the church that ****** me to Hell
just for living; for loving; for breathing.
And
I often speak
of the ink
under my skin-
how it beats
with the blood
of my veins
how it rots
the valleys of my brain
how it festers
in the edges of my eyes
(Besides,
I’ve always thought
leaky faucet eyes and flatlines
were better fitting for me anyway).
And with calligraphy nibs
for teeth
and nails-
the points beg
for the weight
of the word
and the worlds
I could make.
So don’t mind
the blushing lines
on my wrists
& stomach
& sides-
that’s just me scratching the surface.
And
I often speak of
the hell I faced
in the soft heaven of my bed,
and how you Holy Figures watched
and waited
with blind and prying eyes
for the answer to come to you
on a rusting silver platter.
And yet,
when I served the cause
to this wretched effect
bloodied and blessed as it was-
wrapped pretty and proper
in a note I wrote in deranged worry;
you wept,
painting me a monster
with the ink from
my own ****** letters.
So,
cast from above
like One before-
a glistening gold halo
turned to petty pyrite
(how fitting,
for a follower turned fool).
So,
I ask
your Heavens now:
when I came to you
with prayers
and pleads
heavy on my tired tongue
in the pews of your Holy House
made Hell,
did you ever think to hesitate
before you began
to point your jagged fingers
and other weapons of war
at the silent space
between the lines of my letters
(that weren’t even there)?
Or did you hate being wrong so much,
six years of ignorance
was the price
you were willing to pay?
Was it worth it,
my Holy Roots?
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 9:05 AM UTC
You turned me into a paperweight.
Ambling out of your genealogy,
you chiseled me to the marrowbone;
walk tall with your invisible chains.
You turned me into a paperweight
marooned on polished mahogany –
conquered West-Indian trees;
walk tall while your mastery wanes.
You turned me into a paperweight.
From your bottomless, two-ton
tongue came my disfigured heart –
walk tall, you pyrite suzerain.
You turned me into a paperweight,
deserted on paperwork seas,
ball-and-chained to the wooden beach –
walk tall in your insidious vein.
You turned me into a paperweight.
I fell, clutching the snowflakes,
and held your whole ********* useless life together –
walk tall, play that catchpenny game.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
They call him "Tweaker"
Those in the neighborhood of Spring Mountain
and Desert Inn, those who pace
the same streets and sleep in the same block.
He's ironic and contradictory,
calling everyone he happens
by "Slim"
his emasciated smile
black potholes and pyrite
is as genuine as his intentions
shaming traffic with his sadness
cardboard paper signs
"Just trying to get something to eat"
There should be a question mark
My exclamation point
No excuse not to give...
So here you are "slim" collecting the guilt
All the dollars a day in your concrete quilt
and your own red Target
shopping cart...
Caught red handed behind 7-11
In the alley (cats avoid)
with a dub, a dime, or nickle sac
god smacked...
carrying conversations
With / a / no one...
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
Ashen grey, weathered wood
splintered, white bone
hollowed by the desert sun
skull and backbones
laid to rest, wind blown
sunk in sifting sands, exposed
by wet washing squalls
drinking water into steam
interwoven, dead with weeds
iridescent beetles and scorpions
glints of pyrite, diamond stones
the haunting wind, that moans
wild through hollows and holes.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
Climb into bed and...
Hearth embers of body heat circulate,
Tourists on self-guided walking tours,
Exploring the cabalistic eighteen chai holies of the
Human body, temple depository of spark divine.
Heat sparkles cross over the isthmus of Touching Toes,
Continental negotiators, swapping free heat for icicles,
2 X 10 interstitial connections, now land masses filled,
Global warming credit trading par excellence
Fingers, jew wandering, exiled to freedom,
Intertwined within soft-edged, graying sea grasses,
Coverlet over pounding chest,
Hands illegally mining tousled head hair,
Nestling, nesting, without proper permits
Lick away the rumbling hoarseness
Coating a neighboring sleepy throat,
Gate crasher bringing surround-sound comfort,
Seeking to seal and still the groans,
Escaping prisoners of the ills of the wearied mind
Your favorite parts inspiring, demanding
Song, word, drawing or simple quenching,
Tonic of revival, an affirmation of self,
Existence proofs met through need
I write this for me, for her, for you.
Suckers for iron pyrite, most will skip this polemic,
What you don't know about me could be a
Hit show on prime time cable TV.
Like a cute commercial that makes you smile,
For a product you'll never buy,
I write this for me, for her, for anonymous you,
I am the voyager, you the ******
Middle of the night envisioner,
Re-writer of The Gift of the Magi,^
If I die today, I leave this as my last
Will and Testament,
Just another love poem
You'll never read.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
There is at all times
A soup boiling
In the plains of the Savannah.
As the wind presses its large and small hands
Into the course straw grass
To smooth the wrinkles-
But also to make more.
And falling slowly, fluxing,
Between the waves—creatures,
All of them strange,
Blending.
And from time to time, a sickening red,
But only for a while,
Until it is swirled once more into the soup,
Or steeping into the earth as tea.
There is sometimes a stacking of skies;
Amber
On top of pink,
On top of blue,
With pyrite flecks-
But not yet indigo.
And one form rises up out of them;
A baobab moving slowly,
Mushrooming monster,
Exploding exponentially outward.
And at its calloused feet
Are porcelain painted zebras
And soft clay elephants,
Who reshape themselves in the gray murk
Of the water hole-
Which is sometimes blue,
And sometimes sheeted mica shimmering.
Watching quietly, the prince.
Who is still,
(But not exempt!)
Unable to be, but becoming.
Exhausted and exhausting,
Around his furrowed face is a mane
Of technicolor flames.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
I have expensive taste, I love
leather and satin and innocence,
and its willingness to give me things;
diamonds clawed from the ground
by peasants, miles below oil,
and boys that call me beautiful
when I so clearly am not.
I love jewellery, the gold
that binds it's way round my wrist.
Asp quietly slithering alongside it -
by my arteries, twisting repeatedly,
kissing my blood stream, pulse
throbbing beneath the long pearly
fangs, ready to puncture skin.
My addiction is killing me
the shiny things, the pyrite,
the glittering quartz is all worthless.
And terrified of the outcry I flaunt
what I have - all fool's gold, all of it.
Only for fools that we kiss,
you do not love me and so I am foolish.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Forbade from view, the bluebird sits silent,
And writes to her love, an undeserving kingfisher,
The playful and ignorant fisher, too quick,
Insults and praises to the bluest of birds,
Dedicating his faithless being to his love,
Like tipping the Styx ferry in pyrite,
He does not know.
He’s never lied, but his truth is faded.
Faithful to him she is, and he her,
Though unsure of his faith,
El Rey is in pain.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
**** my energy blood and
Recycle it when you go back to your coffin every night
My empathy kills me
My empathy liberates me
I feel so weak, so very very weak
I am the strongest person I have ever known
I am everyone I have ever known
The most knowing of the strength to defend my castle but it is open to the public
I will have to warn the masses of the oncoming spread of disease
"Please take a brochure and know what you are getting yourself into"
STOP HURTING HER
Stop hurting everyone because I feel pain that isn't mine
Its easy to fake it
It's even easier to fake-out yourself
Everything you touch turns into pyrite and fools run up to it thinking they have found gold.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 1:30 AM UTC
There in the trenches
I've seen headless henchmen
Bending spoons
For hapless children
Cremated too soon
Demons croon
They zip
They zag
As the lower class picks their scabs
The gift of gab
Sent towards rips from packs
The rush alone could make one gag!
Have you been there?
Would you go back?
There in the trenches
I've met widows and wives
Carousing with voyeurs
Polishing pikes
Their best years behind
Spent on pyrite-
Euphoric alibis
Which eviscerate bright eyes
Will the Church draw nigh
Or watch the stranded die?
Into the trenches
Few do proudly go
Ash pollutes the snow
Falling like pyrex smoke
You might choke
When violence hits your nose
Deathblows
Thrown by the dead broke
Cross your eyes
And clog your throat
Check your pulse
As an ambulance clears the roads
Would you leave ivory thrones
To reach a people with no hope?
There in the trenches
Christ spent His time
Teaching the poor
Healing the blind
Who are we to stand aghast?
Shrugging our shoulders
Fine wine in antique glass?
When revival comes
Will it move your feet
With Gospel passion
Down the cracking streets?
Could you spare a dime
To prepare a meal
For a drooping reed
With snakebitten heals?
There in the trenches
Good News must flow
Will you remain aloof
Or be the one to boldly go?
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
I watch the cottonwood
seeds
gather on the
wildflowers and
the weeds.
The trail looks a gentle
snowfall
of dust,
Like the back corner
of grandmother's attic...
Blanketed in mystery
and
well worn with
the years.
White sand and flakes of
pyrite
glitter on the
water's edge,
Dancing
with the rythym of the
waves...
A hummingbird
chases a dragonfly
into a tangerine sunset.
A hawk circles the road looking
for a wayward mouse.
I cry a silent prayer.
And can
only
think of you,
My Angel.
And
the
wind
cries
too...
Singing her
sorrowful song
Only for you,
My Angel,
Only for you...
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
Suddenly I find myself tumbling up a spiral staircase
Unexpected deliberate actions
Never intended to travel to this place
Though paradisiacal, tears flow as I fight back the flood
Your voice breaks my silence
Words from your lips piercing, intrusive
Cut straight through to my heart
The levees break, the dam is loose
I cry not for inflicted pain
I cry for the long wait that has now ended
I cry for the many times I wanted this
I cry for the hope of gold and not pyrite
I beg for blindness to resist the temptation to lead me
The twists and turns
The figure eights that begin and end in the same location
To disperse and become straight roads in a long journey
One of hope and not hurt
Accelerating into elation
Surging towards togetherness...oneness
Intertwine
Intertwine
Intertwine...
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
*Perhaps I am mistaken
Perhaps you are not as you seem in the light of day
Glimmering like the Pyrite on the infinite cliff
On the edges of which you keep me, ever at bay
Because after all of the crystal
And shale has been stripped away
And the quartz, the granite, the limestone pale
Have fallen to the earth beneath
To be crushed underneath the walking waves
Perhaps then I will see you shine on a barren day
And my eyes will be better for the sight
Even if your worth is not in gold
But as I fear it might be, in clay*
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
12:10 a.m. Floor's alive
with our shuffling feet...
Our voices laugh through songs,
we catalog each other's faces
as if we'd only just met...
I swing through the amber light
with a stifled
grin
to cover times like this.
1:10 a.m. Golden Rose.
Watch the sidewalk rise...
to meet my falling feet
as the night swells up around me.
I'm one of 10,000 lights...
that drag their way towards dawn
with a coyote
smile
I cover miles of
haunted streets.
I've taken time untangling years. I find
that the kindest fill up dents
which the uncouthest leave behind:
the shapes of
hard and sharpened edges?
They're still present.
But covered for now.
It's 2 a.m. Long stumble home
and my burnt voice sings...
its way through gravel songs
that we've kept in our back pockets.
So long they've kept us all warm...
Nights like this are golden notes
in a pyrite
tune.
Keep me like I keep you.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC