Free Verse Poetry
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There’s mimicry,among this collected imagery.I pull in, these waters –they’ve been reminding mehow much an ocean has grown, one of which, I set sailupon a form of countless holes. Who opened fire?Who let me sink,with only two handsto lend me, this rope? For too long,stumbling on answerafter unearthed answer, and stillsomehow, those wordswere speakingthrough their
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Forced observation.Helpful, for whathas alreadybeen understood. Have youever lifted a heart,too wounded, to move? Move on,with those guesses,left behind. Within rubble,that was, always whereyou crossed invisible lines,finding me, insideblankets of shadows. I am bleedingfor another statement,empty to this misery. I am never findingthe cause. This current,broken element, emulating me. With nomessages, to be sent across,you
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You hear that unfolding. Pages recreate an echo. A faint call.That sound cannot remain wrinkled, staying old – it isn’t a memory you can leave in a grave, when its casketwill be the only thing rotting. Upon your forehead,petals have fallen. They writhe like those maggots you hopeare feasting upon our bittersweet tragedy.We have screamed
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I keep pondering. Looking overyour shoulders and mine,caught in a sudden danceof unified paranoia.I bring you closer to find eyesexactly like mine. I hear your sighscomparable to breezesthat send leaves spiraling.We dance in this continual twist,hearing our names floodedat our decaying feet. All we have committedin these regained hoursis a relit torch. A heart that
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If those stars can be counted,with the melting candlesbaring their relit wicks withour hearts repeatedly beatingfor no other excuse, no other reasonthat wind will only move usto each other’s arms,as we kiss, beyond our shells,beyond our warming Hell. If our eyes can be found,let us know no soundother than rhythms hearddeep in an ocean, brought
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Rush. Touch.With faint eyes,limp arms, nothing is everhalfway to being over.We have fallennext to each other,looking at our clouds,dark, but never raining. Barren stage. We are here,counting seconds, beforeanother beginning,another act to begin playingour scores, our shallow insightsinto a betterment,other than simple blights. Will we find somethingbeyond the clouds,beyond haze? A curtain is oftena third
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I live. Your streaming fingerstrace veins where should be scars,pass along scars where should beyour hollow kisses.I keep connecting youto those long pathwayswhere I deserted old photographs,where I left those notesthat described all your details.I want, though cannotbury you, again, in a heartmade to somehowkeep beating. You are cemented in corridors,added as each blockto build
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Poem #1 “Awaiting Fog” TranslateThe thicknessAround your eyes.Smother your discomfortWith ease and surrender,For defeat to shedAshes to your toes. Dance with the deepest sighsTo plume from reddest lips.Give finalityTo each falling grace.Grab your basketFull of the scenery you plucked,To birth taste, from your tears. Drunk on sorrows,Amorous with your fears.Laid there, not curvingTo the unkind
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White summerWhere stillness engulfs the spiritOf a mother, with her eyesNailed to the lids,As a casketNails her form to the earth. Weeping was all the worldCould release,Of rain, silver in its puddlesFormed at the feetOf those who dulled their sorrowIn bleakest disbelief. The kindnessOutstretched, from armsThat yet trembled,Laid there, upon shouldersAs if waiting for waterTo
Modern Romanticism 