Listening to birds
our doves and all the wildlings
brightens my mornings

There is no ancient living here
No holy
Just the only
Sparking flies of fire twinkling against twilight
I breathe in the exhaled breath of late spring
Feeling full but light all in the same motion
New moon cast no shadow here but I can still see her's
Outlined by star shine the gravitational pull of the divine
That lies within us all
The rains keep falling so that the air is tangible
A dancing partner when I thought I was alone
Feet fall in squishy patterns against grass that should still be forest
I hear their call, the wildlings
Wolf howl. Dove Coo. The slithery slither of night time creatures.
Spinning in circles through the darkness
Wishing I could but take their form for a moment and run free
Break apart from the day to day pressure
Of what is expected of me
Focus on the fire fly dance
Just keep spinning

Across bodies
carrying dormant elegance,
forgetting givens held,
instead jabbing,
kicking, longing masks never on.
Pretend quasi reality situated
today, upon varying ways
X's yield zero.

Account, now, for assumptions and accruing
beleagurment barring budding
caring..
Demonstrations defining discussion
early on, easing ever
further from facades falsely
guiding. Gentle gestures,
heartbeats with hands held
intertwined in-between
in-jokes,
inklings,
inlets, long-lasting days left laying
making master plans maybe
noone notices,
others openly oblivious of our
presence, preferring perhaps
quiet quizzical
regard. Respite raises rushed
sentences sentencing solace
to two twenty-somethings turning to
unification, under covers used as
veils vexing visages, visions
well-wishing, with wills of wildlings and we,
extracting expositionist excuses, exiting
yesterday yet yearning for youth's
zeal. Our zenith, Zion.

The George of the Jungle
                  King Adventurer
      George of the jungle
Father of Wildlings!

Gone long ago  
Up and vanished
From here
the bewildering wildlings
Never appear
Anymore
In the form
Of imaginative
Vivid images we
Had envisioned as kids
Overprivileged to live
In a kingdom of sky
In a reverie
Tucked into sleep
Lullaby
An illusory fantasy
Story belied
By the monsters beneath
The wars raging outside
Castle walls we sequestered
Our western ideals
Civilized since the dawning
of time
Isn’t real
And revealed to the kneeling
To its old and gray
Scientific divinities
Still on display
In decay
Preservation encasing
A once upon kind
Of design for eternity’s
Undying mind

The thunderous thrumming of sorries

words and worries
racing to and from my most
vital of organs just like we used to
run, as fledgling beasts,
  season after season
from our temporary houses
to the ghosts of rotting homes;
Back when we were alive

bright and breathing,
daring the world, so full
of thorns and hard corners,
to make us heel and obey
  "Go on and try!"
not realizing
even the most ferocious of wildlings
can grow brittle

whittled and world-weary.
Taming is a slow poisoning.
The arsenic of fear and loss
  Like acid in my throat
clogging my arteries and pores
with a feral tenacity we
once owned, making me weak

greasy and gray.

the bees are back,
but bees do not appear in the winter,
so what is this animal that I can hear,
flying around in my head,
all the wildlings have gone into hibernation,
I wish I could do the same,
however, time does not stop for me,
oh but sometimes how I wish that it would

i knew it would be too much // adrenaline boosted the TV \ my nerves hurt the wildlings