A breath, in seconds bare, awaits this war
that drains away the mind to dream up voids
Vehemently — like patient prayers whore
the soul, sparing no worldly hominoids.
–and might a moment cease to be obtained
by fallen leaves, whose minds resemble moons:
the arbiters upon the pale, bloodstained
stone — cradled by its crater’s hollow runes,
Would I, in silence, hear the shallow sounds
of leaves which fell from grace some time ago?
or breathe a moment more, to know no bounds,
and free my mind from fate’s still vertigo?
The war within is but a lesson learned,
the mind is only faithful when it’s earned.
Perennials appear in moors of May,
upon prim, purple leaves, and rays of light —
(like raisins sweet, or ink to Hemingway) —
near vacant valleys home to fertile sprite,
where water cultivates the day, and life,
in all its sorrow, treads a floral line,
with nowhere now a tranquil nymph, whose rife
anatomy evokes the heather’s spine:
The ancient evergreen — forevermore
illusive — poets aim to parallel
its wreathe to dreams, but cannot answer for
what fortune’s tell or mean — yet all is well,
for it is still, and light like a feather;
a flower made of hope; it is heather.
with eyes as verse,
she drowns in the pale shadow
of my eye’s own universe:
the everlasting noise of melancholy;
a white noise filtered through a fire.
i was an indigenous kid
off congress and sixth,
to the mystery
i walked away
that the city
in the mind
and not the
find the physical
to be(or not to be)
(i’m a bit of a cynic)but
in the contemporary
mode of poetry
she sits in rain with the ocher of autumn
written within her age.
and i often wonder
why the wind must treat her as winter.
why the slouch of her eyes must weep opium.
why the spine of her nose must breathe pale.
she is as beautiful
afloat in Spring,
and when the time comes
just to see