:::unmoved for days:::

If you had eyes, you would cry the Nile
until your mane was streaked with dusk.
Instead, you stand like a stone,
unmoved for days on end,
blind to the lush fears
that grow wild and
free beneath
nightfall’s
glare.

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Such Whims

Such whims you must expunge with every crumb
of heart at hand, for nothing but unrest
would prey upon the pride of those who slump
forth, called to be old outcasts, two abreast!
Remember days of mustard dust and nests
of grievous vultures, pecking ‘round your door?
To yell to hell with palms outstretched, compressed
by dappled fabulists whom you abhor,
is Thebes’ thistle—nothing less and nothing more.

Marrow and Memoirs

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

Staring for hours at a wall of sand,
deciding what is light and what is
shadow, brings everything into focus
and who you were before you donned
the masks that have made your life,
emerges between the hours of restiveness
and reason.

Hunger will shape one’s days in ways
that can humble even the most jaded
and faded of homo sapiens; eyes that
fumbled only for tomorrow begin to
hunt thirstily for that which will sustain
marrow and memoirs for ages to come.

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

:::come hover near:::

Three beeswax candles burn to brighten Hallow’s Eve.
Pocked faces sneer ‘neath greasepaint; they are dying to deceive!
The wind is whimpering, now wailing, down long lanes
and leaves of caramel and carmine flit at window panes.
May souls who have departed from this spinning sphere,
come hover near the hearths of humans, whom they once held dear.

:::soothing spies:::

Sweet scenes of angels lull sick hearts to sleep.
They glide in sky blue, flying over eyes
which flutter, steeped in bourbon’s fevered keep.
White wings of comfort…nature’s soothing spies.

Four years gone
cornered on all sides
blood head
just what we denied

What meaningless and mournful nights have passed.
How glad we would be if compassion came
to call on him, whom life has left to die.
Sweet scenes of angels lull sick hearts to sleep.

traitorous space/the ones left behind

The narrow space between our wrists
morphs into dangerous temptation.

Step by step under broiling white lights,
slowly, suddenly, slyly…floating away from
coded commitments and shapeless sheets,
we fall into fair florid irises, promising
all without so much as a word.

Traitorous space
briskly, bindingly, boldly…slips swiftly away
in our hour of need.

:::where the cherries grew:::

Kiss me in daylight
neath June’s lying skies.
Our flesh is still young yet
but won’t be for long,
think back to our misplaced and lost loving song.

It’s faint as a fox kiss,
yet there nonetheless,
I dare you to hear it
with ears that submit.

And if that melody, old but new
should take firm hold inside of you,
come find me where the cherries grew.
I’ll be there with a kiss for you.