how easy it is to forget
how your heart beats
when you haven’t felt it in awhile
or how your own voice
feels like a stranger
speaking whispers into a maze
you can’t get out of
ransacking my very own vocabulary
but oppressing a dead melancholy
revisit.
a lonely wild
in the whisper of a loom
a faint song to the wary moon
poignant to the wilderness
treading to bare a heart
but a hushed grave
so quiet
so quiet to bloom
intangible enchantment
as winter bleeds
and spring creeps in
I hear the whist of
of an angel’s wing
It’s the black abyss.
Stranger is the face that paints me quiet, I have been away far too long. My penmanship is rusty and creeks to the sound of a whistling crane. I labor like a giant that lacks coordination, and stumbling on my tongue; I cannot balance the same. I tear into confusion interjected with beats of frustration in my heart. I let a lot of it go… waiting to hear a voice from the past. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I frolic in my own imagination, to wait no more. Let thy mouth rebut and don’t torture me into that black abyss.
stillness.
old habits are hard to break
haunts from a century still folded
I have secrets which hiss
on the end of a serpent’s tongue
and tides that break my flame
when done
his beauty
his breath
remain masked within my soul
clinging to my ribcage
haunted; me.
October looms like the syllables on my tongue. Like the troops of ghosts marching across my soul, as the moon yearns in quiet premonition. The trees rustle in wake of a listless sky and the dim scent of violets remain on my skin.
bridge to nirvana.
she is like the fiery night
some say like meteors that rush
leaving behind hues of the skies prism
still beauty that lingers
and all of the above does not end
her new breath in her soul
subtleties of raw emotion dissipate
one deep roar
and all the dragons are her kingdom
I regret nothing.
I am the fall
like rain from thunder
my footsteps you cannot hear
into the depths of separated souls
like the leaves falling from trees
the skeletons submerge
and my musings remain
thoughts from a faraway time
and the cold breath of a grave
the flowers stay dishevel’d
from all the winds
that tied fate in knots
until thou didst fade
but the swell of a moon
gives me new light
softly;deadly.
some vague thoughts
but yet elusive
enough to smell the roses
against my skin
as such lovely vanishes
as tender my voice
enough to unleash the thorns
drifting into the wind
winters shield.
these stone walls barricade
I have built them with my hands
against the foul birds
that lay rest to the North
when the sun rises
it does not deflect
I can still hear
the murmuring of softly shadows
and the continuous ache
that releases from my own breath
the gathering of winter.
the tides of the
synchronized whispers
they carry unvarying homage
to the desert lands
waiting for the night
to catch its breath
for such is the grace of a sunrise
like the footsteps of a god
and trembling sounds
to hear the last day of summers
