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personal writing

Poems

Thoroughly study my abstract arrangements of diseased, broken, or dead intangible elements of the spirit. It is Winter, stratified and irregular. Even in its darkest shadows, an absence of black, the absence of him. I shiver, Looking for salt. in God, in this spiral of exposed rock where many killings occurred- Replicated an infinite number of times, loved and lost.

Another grim possibility- you hear the emergence of the mask that he’ll wear. Dogs sprint for nearshore waters, Hungry for anything, pushing air from lungs. To the brink of death if necessary

Always dreamed of your home, lilac hued. And to me it means something else. Heart pounding, an open fire in the shifting light. A Touch of smoke would unfurl the bitterness that strips bare, growing your own sunken eyes

Dampen your joy. Within seconds, fresh cream curdled. Yourself, your mind, getting caught in the blades. And what about you? You want. There’s just the sky, the world, a spoonful of honey. Warm fruit, with cherries a deeper red, like temples of salvage. How can you stop? Build a bigger fire, this is no time to be too small.

It is almost black, in twilight, its arching branches: the vanishing forest. He starts to sing, his voice is beautiful and rose pink in my mouth. Just a bit further is the descent to the underworld, falling into the center, into a litany of love. I saw the aberrations. Symphonies and nocturnes, bittersweet beauty, and running beasts. I ached. I tried playing God, finally! He whispered: this thing is alive, its wings jewel-like. It rises and contracts, unripened. Every day, Until it doesn’t

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