poetry bombing.
(life is a story, and poetry is its language.)
Outside,
the city was hollow
concrete cocoons
waiting to bloom
into willing buildings,
soon.
She was crying
spring rain into my passenger seat.
Her feet crossed,
and tears were lost
as they glossed
her exhausted eyes
were green
with frost
and lies.
In my demanding wasteland,
understanding is a place and
forgiveness is a taste
in the breeze.
Winter came
when she, unashamed,
took his hand,
but shook the blame.
This place has changed.
All the lovely things I'd planted.
All the seeds were wishes granted.
All the coldest winds she panted
sing of springs of sins recanted.
But for now,
there is snow,
and nothing is green.
And nothing will grow.
Outside,
the city glows.
And so it's come to this...
And so it's running from a sunny slit wrist
in a long list of near miss
exorcists.
I twist in bedsheets and read too deeply into body heat
signatures. You can be
accidentally
deceiving,
but through the pleading bleats of freedom,
I see them bleeding.
I see them retreating along the needy
riverbanks,
no thanks
from them
for fleeing
phlegm
descended from their flanks
and ranks.
Their tanks
track this shore
wants more,
it's dry and dying,
trying for all rainfall
they could implore
or call for.
Explore the course of corpses torched by forced discourse,
abhorrent source divorced, of course,
from the delta
that divides, inside
the rain that pelts ya.
The rest is blood, freshly cried
running ruddy,
sand to mud,
time to money,
earthen sky,
divide from sunny,
with the tide.
And so it's come to this.
And so I sit in the waterline of waves receded
And watch for shipwrecked bits of that army
to drag themselves ashore.
And so I step carefully over dead horses and the half-buried edges of broken swords
as I wander and watch for familiar faces.
And so I cannot count any higher,
For my fingers and toes are all preoccupied by crawling.
and that's all.
Well,
another appalling day plays at stalling my way
to hover over my lover’s shoulder.
I told her
that I’m afraid.
And I am
afraid of that day’s parade fading only into lonely shade,
attoning homely blade that combs away the place
in me
where she
stays.
She said
the dead are always wanting,
and if my blur were to haunt her saunter
she’d be forever forgiving.
Besides,
I’m living and
at her side.
We walk through dark parks
in midnight light and mark
our territory glorious,
furious storytelling swelling in our bellies.
She is telling me
the names that stain her veins, ashamed,
and how they became mine.
I walk faster to leave those ghosts behind.
Outside,
the city was hollow
concrete cocoons
waiting to bloom
into willing buildings,
soon.
She was crying
spring rain into my passenger seat.
Her feet crossed,
and tears were lost
as they glossed
her exhausted eyes
were green
with frost
and lies.
In my demanding wasteland,
understanding is a place and
forgiveness is a taste
in the breeze.
Winter came
when she, unashamed,
took his hand,
but shook the blame.
This place has changed.
All the lovely things I'd planted.
All the seeds were wishes granted.
All the coldest winds she panted
sing of springs of sins recanted.
But for now,
there is snow,
and nothing is green.
And nothing will grow.
Outside,
the city glows.
And so it's come to this...
And so it's running from a sunny slit wrist
in a long list of near miss
exorcists.
I twist in bedsheets and read too deeply into body heat
signatures. You can be
accidentally
deceiving,
but through the pleading bleats of freedom,
I see them bleeding.
I see them retreating along the needy
riverbanks,
no thanks
from them
for fleeing
phlegm
descended from their flanks
and ranks.
Their tanks
track this shore
wants more,
it's dry and dying,
trying for all rainfall
they could implore
or call for.
Explore the course of corpses torched by forced discourse,
abhorrent source divorced, of course,
from the delta
that divides, inside
the rain that pelts ya.
The rest is blood, freshly cried
running ruddy,
sand to mud,
time to money,
earthen sky,
divide from sunny,
with the tide.
And so it's come to this.
And so I sit in the waterline of waves receded
And watch for shipwrecked bits of that army
to drag themselves ashore.
And so I step carefully over dead horses and the half-buried edges of broken swords
as I wander and watch for familiar faces.
And so I cannot count any higher,
For my fingers and toes are all preoccupied by crawling.
and that's all.
Well,
another appalling day plays at stalling my way
to hover over my lover’s shoulder.
I told her
that I’m afraid.
And I am
afraid of that day’s parade fading only into lonely shade,
attoning homely blade that combs away the place
in me
where she
stays.
She said
the dead are always wanting,
and if my blur were to haunt her saunter
she’d be forever forgiving.
Besides,
I’m living and
at her side.
We walk through dark parks
in midnight light and mark
our territory glorious,
furious storytelling swelling in our bellies.
She is telling me
the names that stain her veins, ashamed,
and how they became mine.
I walk faster to leave those ghosts behind.