You flip your fingers through your ever shining locks and gracefully saunter through the halls

The heads turn as the masses gleefully greet and smile at the beauty of how your pieces are placed together oh so precisely

You held power, plenty of it
And I was in the way

It was strange to see the reactions on the faces of familiars when I told them of the crushing things you could accomplish.
None wanted to believe that such a beauty could hold such a bite.

And I tried to convince myself of that too.
Plentiful years have passed and all have moved on

Yet I stay stuck in these empty halls

Wondering why your bite took so long to become infected

Wondering what remedy could treat this ancient ailment.

I sat down by the tree in the center of the cul de sac
and I stared straight ahead for what seemed like days.
There was a brand new mailbox and front door,
but my ten year old handprint is still on the driveway.

My favorite dog, Louie, used to lay on that windowsill
and patiently wait for me to come back from school,
and behind that front window was the formal dining
room where my dad first taught me how to play pool.

Just behind that was the kitchen where Momma used to
make meat patties and gravy, her hands covered in flour,
and the upstairs middle window was where my sisters
and I used to argue over who was first in line to shower.

The upstairs window on the far right was where my
neighbor used to throw small rocks to get my attention.
Eight years later, that friend is now in a cemetery and I think
about him and his family more than I can even mention.

The memories of my entire childhood are embedded
into each brick of this two story house in Candlelight Hills
and knowing that my white picket fence past is now
nothing but distant fond memories gives me the chills.

These walls in front of me shaped me into who I am today
and as I sit here on the curb reminiscing on my own,
I know in my heart that no matter where I live
or how many years pass, this will always be my home.

I am a living memory of you

For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true

I ventured forth, again into the musty canyons
The dark, dank space that is
My past
Or more specifically
Ours.

A perusal reveals:
Hats in boxes, brims unmet by sun in ages
Creased shirts, bands' crests emblazoned bright
Clever titles scrawled in sharpie on silent CDs
And everything coated with brown hair
Crooked and curled as the smile
That I wear presently
Upon this journey

Upon further inspection:
Percussive rhythms, beats tattooed
Into slick skin
A laughing afterthought of intimacy
A private joke shared between us
Among many

The messy box:
Conversations held hostage by anger
Fueled on one side by deceit and fury at the world
While the other fights a war, at another's side: alone
Confusion racking both
Where once there was naught but desire
To care, protect, discover, and journey
Hijacked, a spoiled child upending a puzzle
That his insolence will never allow him the
Solace
Of completing

And the box that releases a torrent of whispers upon opening:
My name
Hands on knees, rage relieved in an instant
Your laugh
At my protruding tongue, a face fraught with focus
Poetry, lilted and simple
About the charm in how I climb stairs

Ending with the lessons:
To seek patience; with the large, and especially the small
To love fully; as they say, time flies
To face fear; naked honesty will conquer this
To rely on; there is no shame in support
To...

The grit of clenched teeth
Overcome by the solace of
Framed reality
I descend the shaking ladder
Leaving behind this echoing forrest
Mist clouded with
Shared impassioned melodies
I have sorted and cleaned enough
I will revisit from time to time

But. In practicing honesty:

I am a living memory of you

For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true

A woman without a voice.
Her mouth sewn shut, by the ones who deem her nothing but a servant.
A woman with no strength to declare her worth.
She is to be given the right of speech by others who constantly steal it.
Her screams can be heard from miles away.
She is clawing out of the hole they dug for her.
Stay they say in order to keep her obedient.
She stays quiet.
One wrong look and she'll be killed.
She is a prisoner in her own home.
In her own body.
She wants to escape but she is trapped.
The only way out is through the lonely dark road.
She starts her journey.
Slowly she cuts the sutures.
One by one the light gets brighter.
Her voice begins to sing.
And finally, her captors are gone.
Never to be mentioned again.
She starts her new life with freedom on her shoulders.
With every step, she realizes that she is something remarkable.
Call her a feminine masterpiece.

The days, they flee like frightened prey
From ravenous needs of the past,
Appetite that feeds on today,
Voracious hunger’s everlast.

Still open wounds prey on the weak,
Tomorrow’s young without defense.
It’s deadly game of hide and seek,
It’s pain’s surviving consequence.

Tomorrow has not built the strength
To outrun this ferocity,
Anger pursues and shortens length
So it can feed on what could be.

The ruthless past pursues to feed
In service to instinct to ****,
Attack and let the future bleed,
To prey on time so it stands still.

Re-listening to this music
To find some hidden melody
And rip meaning from its depths

Grit down deep, the final dregs
Looks like I've lost sleep again
Burning fumes, and barking dogs
With hopeless reminiscing

Home is where my pillow is
And not where I can find a friend
So why spend time still wondering
If luck had never left me