The rush of Fall leaves
Crunchy utterances under
Winter boots –
I hate the Summer

Sunrise sunshine, save a
Defiant silhouette beside mine
Breathing quiet ocean tides –
Innocence like Springtime

If I spent an afternoon
Cloaked in the scent of your muse:
Wildflower Spirits.
The Spring Deluge.
Would you love the sound of my voice in your ears?
I left the taste of trust on your lips
-An attempt at bliss-
Hand in hand,
The rainfall covers us.
It covers us.

There, my Love steps and
Here, my love follows like a small moon in orbit
My soul raptured and
Smothered amongst her rising Sun's Shadows...
Waiting...
I find myself buried like bad habits-
A pack of cigs for her glossed lips
On a Thursday afternoon stroll.

Those doe-like eyes and your rosy lips
Make these liquid emotions collide and swoon -so when they mix-
Infectious is the way I feel them bloom
Inside my heart so smitten;
I swear you love it too.
I swear you feel it too.
And I swear this space grows with graceful Hues: Orange-Purple sunset lulls that pull
The strings of our two souls
So catalytic, the strum that hums nascent Blues.
Listen...
It sings You and I as a
Primordial premonition of truth, the Downpour like Tuesday Rainfall.
And You?
The pluming sensation reigning in my Skies, breathes when I feel you feel me...
When I love you wholly, surely you'll see us Truly.

Over the span of three years and some days,
I've only written forty-nine poems.
I am not a poet.

If not imminence, is it lust?
A need for silence, a want for noise
I ask to live and breathe
But breathe the scent of laced intoxication.
Fabricated bliss in subordinate dictation -
It tastes like blood on the tongue,
An iron will I detest.

Against the color painted hues of false amnesty

In amber rests preserved skeleton supremacy

Montages.

We sank in sands freckled red in sunsets and
Our hands danced like the swirling plumes
Wrought by tides
I suppose there's a time and place to write of
Love, so wouldn't this be one of those times?
One of those places?

We sank in oceans freckled red in sunsets and
Our hands danced like the swirling plumes
Wrought by drowning
I suppose there's a time and place to write of
Death, so wouldn't this be one of those times?
One of those places?

What is to be solidified in imminence?
The Nothing or The Everything?