Poetry
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I have come,calling your weatherto come down,from its slumbering dark,in a mood of depth. I have come,with ice in these veins,water in these eyes,fire in these lungs.I am undone,in hoping you will seethis last particle of sunlightfrom the rest of me. Open your windowto let out your rain.Extinguish me into a remainder,for I will scar…
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You’re steering your linein a direction most predictable.I’ve come to guesswhere you’ll come to, next,broken into divisions,like the mirrorsyou press your face against. I might let you runadrift, aground, without light.Or I might give you a lessonyou deserve, without this regressionbeyond another doorwayto another man,you will temporarily serve. If I can just let you under,drown…
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Desert me,leave me to thirst,sitting on these linesdrawn to separatethe crime from the timeI will serve, to signifya knot I cannot unbind. I abducted a disasterto set it free into its peace,but where did it leave me?I am one of those stepping stones,someone else has crossed,or a crossed-out letterto bring a pen forward. Betray me,leave…
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Running another milewill not bring you backto our emptied clouds.We are two fallen raindropsinside an ocean,where depth and vastnessget lost in circles. A whirlpool, our minds,a unified hemisphereof adjacent confusions,since you let me grant a kissunder that altar of devotion,shining me throughuntil I broke our light into ruins. I brought down our sun to drowninside…
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To fall, withina nestling – a sense,of touch, of muchto unwind, from wordsthat are spilled from the passionof closed eyes. Are you here to kiss me,after how long you’ve missed me?Were your tears running alongthose lines we were racing,though we were losing? Unravel your final wordto me, for me, before you leave mewith another shadowdancing…
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Marking a spotwithin a mileI’ve walked, if notalways to leave alone,but to keep coming to –coming to sensations,coming back to those trillsupon discarded flesh. I am emptyingwhat I’ve keptlocked inside, breaking me down,lifting me upfrom trembling floorswhere these wallsare colored in your color, a depth where I’ve dropped,facing that whichreflects me, into nothingness. Lost in…
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Freezing a circle,one subtle prisonwhere sounds were brought in,quivering under brightnessof a sun, dilated like a pupil,shrunken like a grain of sandin our disarray. We wept, in our madnesswith love keeping usinside burning shelters.As captives, we sought afterwhat we wanted at night: to sleep under cold moonlight,lost in that circle of our arms. Kisses drove…
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Rewinding where weleft off, on a pagewhere emptiness speaks heavily.Cut fingers, from edgesof a paper, written in haste,tells of no more to explorefor an illness, for a comfort. We were detailingour deception, in summary. Always meaning to retreatback to prior passages,realizing within fogthat love must have been showingsomething of color,other than black decorating white. Behind,…
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A note,lost to mild winds.A life that had venturedon a long-enough road,laying its seedsit deemed enough, for they were its tearsspeckling that notecarried on windsfor the middle-ground. Someone kept themselvesthat feathered witness –that bird from its perch –a crow with its insight,for someone elsemust be remembered. Someone else rose upfrom death, with bewildermentevident at their…
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Why weren’t we ever morethan our disbeliefs? Over everythingwe gave into, to abhor –we displayed our fleshfor the world to ignore.We reprimanded our blessings,drew knives like drawing our outlinearound where we fell. In love, hopelesslystanding in a river,red with a murdered connection.At our flesh, we laid breathslike hanging pictureson a solid color. Kisses were deep.Feelings…
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Carrying a torchfor a bed, to burnthose photographs, imprintedon scented bedsheets –of foulness, of flavorthat drenches this air,this naked atmosphere. Her salience. Her importanceto be high among nests and clouds.A queen, of damning privilege,having knowledge over noneupon this bloodied field,where flesh remainsa soldier’s shield. A ghost, into midnight,she goes. A wandering driftwith countless ashes to…
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A state of none.Senselessness, of onepair of longing winters,who are taking turnshanding over frozen teardropscollected like grains of sand,collected like stars,as a wish for summer. A place to shun,of one pair of wicked loverswho’ve hung portraitswith brokenness, at glass surfaces –remnants of puddles,where faces were gluedfor spontaneous glee. They’ve hidden their ruinswithin helpless clouds,fleeing their…
Modern Romanticism 