The lovers don´t touch,
final lies freeze their breath,
a brittle, vertical icicle.
A Painter heard the Poet’s words,
Then took his golden brush,
To paint the world alive again,
Down to the river’s rush.
And should a child make it
To the densely packed production line,
There are no lifetime guarantees
No best before, or after birthday dates
Supply outcries demand.
But demand increases should you move
Within the factory floor,
Be placed onto the packaged line
Or stamped and wrapped:
“For Family Wealth”
Gripping writing tools like vices for the future,
Avoiding full eye contact and solidifying closure,
Running up ramp ways and giggling like it’s pleasantry,
Bells ringing like Notre Dame ignoring all the travesty,
His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.
Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.
Each of us ponders life’s reason
looking deep within our own soul
We follow each path and season
that vainly we seek to control
Longing quantified and articulated
yours is the touch
that lights the forever fires
seethes the trembling earth,
The cause of divorce one way or another
Who’s always accused of being a lover
Causing a rift at parties or work
I am a mime.
Burning fingers pressed
against frozen air.
Fingerprints engraved on the whirl
of wind that guards your heart,
hides your heart,
traps your heart in the eye
of the storm. Snatches
wisps of meaning
with intrusive fingers.
Promises bits of something better…
I draw closer.
Laughing, taunting, stealing
the breath from my lungs.
searching for air,
gasping for words,
for some part of myself
to launch into the wind
as if it could reach you.
Something is menacing in every bemuse;
as something unspecified grows into my cranium.
flare of old remembrance transpire me into a nerve-racking feeling.
The boundary in my intellect has become slain;
The road I stride has become deceased;
as all subsistence commodity thing’s are lamented.
The only thing that exhalation is only the extinct zephyr.
My heart pretended
you were a sound
I could drink
when I went searching
for golden lines full of surprise.
When I walked towards you,
my ears tasted the beat of the earth
and it began to turn
Ringing clear were hundreds of memories
I had kissed freely,
known as all the things you did.
Then in came the rushing sea
crashing into my mind
with waves of everything
you have ever said.