Ivory Tower

do you recognize the bones
of your ivory tower —
this once smooth surface
dulled by inability &
disfigured insecurities?

do you ever get lonely up there
among all those childish fears —
the only true company
you allow yourself to keep?

(A)stray

why did you leave your beating heart
at the side of the road?
it cannot survive on
exhaust fumes & fast food wrappers
alone.

What Remains

I still miss you
in between heartbeats —
when the weaving fields of air
are utterly still &
even my resilience has
stepped out to take a breath

I still miss you —
a submerged, subdued kind of pain;
black & white &
stretched, paper-thin —
yet always
tethered to my heart.

(Re)animation

I did everything I could —
right before all color
drained from my life

now,
I slowly replenish what I lost —
(when my cautiously extended trust
got rocked in its frame)
in bountiful drops & moments
scattered by loving hands
& strong, steadfast hearts.

___________________________________________________________
The image was created by using the AI Art Generator at Imagine Art.

Pa(la)ce

it took me years to find you.

I cannot follow you
into that shattered place;
I would get utterly lost in
the echoing halls of your so(m)ber palace
& the sterile still life
would smother
what I have become

it took me years to find you —
and now
I cannot follow your footsteps.

Once In A Blue Moon

At times, I think of you. Not in a romantic sense, but the Pristine Blue of your eyes seems to cling to my memory. I remember my reflection in those eyes of yours – seeing myself with an unexpected clarity; not feeling uncomfortably naked for the first time in my life.

I do believe there is a path through the rubble; through the lamentations of these wayward souls. I do believe, there is an ebb & flow to our existence; to who and what we are – at certain points in time. I find myself turning towards you, as surely as the tides turn. That is all I know.

our naked souls course
through dust and barren houses
once in a blue moon

____________________________________________________________________________
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Frank Tassone invites us to experience the Super Blue Moon for Haibun Monday. This is my attempt. Come one over and join us at the bar!

I Am (Not Sorry)

the day we met, I started losing you —
I did not know it then, but in the months to follow,
you grew brighter & more opaque,
while I steadily tried to adjust the lighting

in these tiny slivers of time,
when we were stripped down to our very souls,
I gained new aspects of myself —
to add to this incongruous puzzle box
I call my wonderful life.

—

the cracked & splintered Ones
are always the most beautiful —
although you run a high risk of
cutting yourself on their sharp edges,
you can taste the kaleidoscope
in the intricate facets of their shards &
gain a bittersweet glimpse of
what it means to be alive.

Groundwork

did you count the fingers
of my (still) extended hand or
were you distracted by
the writings I applied so carefully to your foundation,
while you were trying to find hidden code
in the slow, gentle waves of affection
frequently landing on your shore?

you were always so scared of the monsters
you conjured on your own sodden grounds
from nothing but thin air & paper mâché —
yet you could not let them fade
while you yourself grew more & more
translucent

amazed, you said that I was the first to give
without expecting a piece of you in return —
but you never stopped looking for hidden agendas
in the creases & lines of every word I said.

—

I never meant to harm you
but you were just too scared to see
I never was the villain
you imagined me to be.

The Flood

carrying the torch felt strangely alien, when
I did not even know what to do with the flames
or if I wanted them, really

you secretly averted your eyes
when you said you were going to make it, but
your mask just ripped & left papercuts
all over that spotless version you sold yourself

your face was beautiful —
like that of a newborn,
right after you stole glimpses of your worth through wondrous eyes;
but your knees just buckled &
the tide turned
before you could get the whole picture.

Estranged

the thinnest of threads yet lingers
drifting in the currents,
straining in the furious storms,
never quite ready to break

it is a pity, really
to watch you st(r)anding in the sleet;
when you could have chosen
the warmth you crave so desperately,
yet fear the most

pride runs in rivulets
down your cracking armor
& I am certain
I will search those eyes again
to find the spark that ignites
the flame you wear so well.

Not A Christmas Poem

your smile stays hidden
behind a thousand snakes;
scales glistening in the spotlight
you force yourSelf to stand in —
so tall and manly (as you put it)

I still remember the color of your soul
& how warm it felt to the touch
when it was yet within my reach
not all that long ago

your eyes are filled with hope
when my fingers brush the last shred of dignity
off your starched collar 
& I realize
this is not a christmas poem.

In Passing (Haiku)

life bridges the gap
between sorrow and a smile —
spring rains fall less stern.

Chameleon

tucked away in the smallest of closets
the child in her bellowed; holding fast to the promise of
an aging hyena’s sly smile, fully prepared
to deny those few strands of self
still clinging to pumping calves
on her steady decline

she left her name at the doorstep
along with her unbound fate, dropped
what little truth she had
into the blossoming weave of her mesmerizing colors
& displayed her heart for rent.

– The Sunday Whirl –

Sepia

night falls, thickly
with a taste of tangy orange
that masks the lump in my throat
while I think about
saying goodbye to you, predestined,
in the early hours of morning

discomfort slouches at the back of my neck
& I tap my nails on those angular customs
as I see myself squirm in this crammed space —
You and Me were all sepia smiles &
so much more than worn wooden benches

I will keep our moments
in a pudding cup,
squeeze them joyfully
a little too hard
& still raise your voice
long after the silence.

Down By The Water

will we float
at the bottom of this forgotten pool,
when time boils and sorrow
weighs down the scales?

the trident’s choice is
threefold,
but only one
is yours ~
and in your pale hand resides
death,
forevermore.