The words turned to ash in my mouth.
The stench rose up and bile formed.
And I ran.
Thoughts that were like the sweetest honey
suddenly became bitter ash.
For I was leaving the place of death and bitterness,
a dark sodden existence for a place of sun.
Not a cowards run.
A run towards the Sun,
to the light, to happiness and laughter and love.
I run towards the Sun.
Dimming shades so vibrant turned to grey
my eyes shaded, discerned meaning
felt the crack, felt the sorrow seep in
felt the tears on wet cheeks and watched
as one soldiered onward.
In another life, we were friends.
In another life, we smiled.
In another life, we watched the sun rise for us.
In another life so far away from here and now,
it is I that watches over the mourners for you.
It is I that remains to watch the sun rise for us.
In another life.
She pours it out, a thimbles worth.
Exchanging it in equal measure,
how many times can she before
she is measurably not her own
She sews bits to bits.
Singing in rhythm of the times,
slips in the needle, out darts a tongue.
Joining that which can not be undone.
“There! That is a piece of me, in him.”
She strokes him above his heart
and leans in to hear his beat.
“His piece is here…” she thumps her chest
right above her heart “in me.”
Upon the buttress of his heart waved his adopted flag
his tongue sung another
and his soul flew on Latin dreams observant
of the nobility of thought.
A chance meeting crossed their paths,
two strange creatures
diametric opposites, pushing, pulling
according to electric currents
pulsing through the air.
From Eiffel Tower she spied
Icarus plummet to erda.
Three thousand plus furlongs à la Mer.
La tragédie est une fosse dans le sol.
Elle pose donc du chocolat et une rose et souffle des bisous.
Ses yeux mouillés.
The Labyrinths reach, far too long.
La libertà è tutt’altro che raggiungibile.
You inspire me
[to be a better person than I was yesterday]
Yesterday I was a mess.
Goodbyes shattered my skies.
Baby, I thought I was nothing
But now you’re gone
and here I remain.
From the pain and struggle I find
love flows from me to you.
Maybe we weren’t meant to be.
Baby, time hasn’t been kind to us.
I’m left with memories of us,
the good and the bad.
I smile thinking of your voice
and grin when I recall your happiness.
Baby, maybe we weren’t meant to be.
Don’t be sad now, my love.
Go. Find that special someone.
Make new memories and smiles.
Love someone new and
Baby, maybe time will be kind to you.
You inspire me to be a better person.
One day, I’ll be a better person.
Maybe then, time will be kind to me too.
I’ve killed the Muse.
All I’ve got is
feathers and lots of blood.
I’ve killed my heart.
Broken pens spin
I’ve gone feral,
killing all my darlings
in the dark night of my ink.
None of it matters
in this rain so black,
mad acid attack.
I’ll wear the tar and feathers
and dance the tambourine
leaving tracks across the white
as if to strike
one letter after the other.
Bleakness came round to visit one day
and her hand found a talisman
waiting on a odd store shelf
and with last bits of coins
she purchased her lifesaver.
Is it foolishness, this grasping of a hope?
Is it a mistake to see a guiding light in the darkness?
In her palm she rolls the bright paper across it.
Inside she knows sweet candy retains
and yet, today,
far more is that her eyes see.
Slipping it into her pocket and facing the day;
a bright inner light sourced from whispers
unfettered from the shackles of the past
burst across inner horizons.
In her week moments, caressing the coil in her pocket,
she finds hope; from pain comes wisdom,
from thorns one grows strong,
and the sun does dawn.
There are Lifesavers out there.
The last phone call,
the last her eyes sought his,
the last inhale of his scent,
the last bit of skin on skin,
Three weeks for her heart to shatter,
for her to cry, scream, beg and plead.
Three weeks to curse the world black.
Three weeks to bleed pain.
Three weeks, three long weeks
Three weeks till she can smile
with the sunrise.
Three weeks till she can dream.
Three weeks till she can work
on healing that broken heart.
(so she might as well, scream.)
Days of deadheading long gone.
Crisp petals drift.
Dead roses, from appreciation to rot,
dried in a vase now waits
as dreams of seeds pass into ether.