I hold the ember in the cup of my hands
the uselessly toiling fingers are- Kindling.
No longer able to beat out
rhythms on an unyielding earth-
I hear the crackle of the fire
consuming my bones.
Keep the children warm,
feed them my ashes.
*Note: Originally posted on my deviantart in 2013
Nothing comes
at this hour.
Only the
fear of
what
will
be.
What
will this
hour hold?
Will it be kinder
Then the careless way
I have let the last hour go?
Give me a reason to stay awake.
Pour secrets into my ears,
run your nails along the peaks-
and valleys of my breast.
Steal my breaths between stories,
locate my pulse by the birthmark on my neck.
Keep my eyes open, help me
scatter poetry on bedsheets-
keep the rhythm of recitation
with the undulating of your hips.
Sigh, unravel, and spool into me.
Curl around my body, kiss each eye
closed. Then,
then I can sleep.
who am I?
Who am I?
is condensed onto business cards, epigraphs, and eulogy and nothing else.
I have atrophied in these sheets.
They cling to me,
sweat gathers in sickness
and in health I know nothing but want.
Yet, need lingers in the door
beckons, but does not come forth.
My dreams run rampant like pixies;
they are splashes of imaginary colour ,
no paper can hold them.
Outside the barren tree branches lacked the strength
to hold onto their colourful autumn,
I lack the strength (will) to even manifest a fall,
So, I’ve fallen into a bed of leaves
(which I did not rake)
Please. Decompose this body,
feed the corpse to the worms-
this is the only way I know to celebrate a harvest.
1. A life unlived is not unique.
2. What things keep you from being?
3. Your words are bullets, so speak.
4. Could charity save a soul?
5. Save sinful eyes from seeing?
6. A life unlived is not unique.
7. Pastor, knows how to console,
8. your empty hums agreeing,
9. his words are bullets, so speak.
10.His righteousness takes a toll,
11. good deeds need guaranteeing,
12. a life unlived is not unique.
13. A charlatan wants control-
14. “It’s for your own wellbeing!”
15. These words are bullets, so speak.
16. Hatred is an armed pistole,
17. scared are the ones decreeing:
18. “A life unlived is not unique!”
19. Their words are bullets, so speak.
Lying in displacement.
Overhead- fires, smoke,
visages of phantoms.
Evening descends, chaos
arises upon a broken land.
Nearly to gates
delineated by gemstones.
Were we capable of anything more?
Anything other than this
revenge, which no one survives.
Sitting in idleness with-
the creeping ivy growing high,
oxidized metal blends in with the dirt,
paint peeks out from underneath the bubbles of rust.
.
& –yet–
.
Still the small bell sings,
(there upon the croooked handles)
A joyful reverberation leaping for the trees.
Remanents of neon green tassels shyly flutter,
taken in hand by a curious and friendly morning breeze.
.
PN: work that hasn’t been workshopped will have titles accompanied with “(rough)”.
Just as my worries gather they ebb-
drawn out to sea.
The decaying parts of my spirit float on it’s discordant waves.
Glittering foam catches negative thoughts,
they disappear into sand-
become the dreams and castles of children,
my sorrows transformed into well intended moats.
Sunlight bleeds into night,
the dying of a gull resonates down the alley of the beach,
water gnaws on a clumsy tower made of sand,
it draws the melancholy back to me.
Anger rises in curls of steam
Dissipates then
Precipitates
Sorrow.
