and there you are, churning the soft earth
where we buried you
with all the dignity
we could muster
Jiminy Cricket wore your shoes for a while,
but your footsteps were too hard to follow —
so he missed a step &
got back on track,
for better or worse
I am sorry you are still lost —
but there is nothing left to say
when all the answers
are ash & bone
& broken, too.
in those merciless hours
when truth and faith collide,
it is not the easiest task
to be Peter Pan.
faint whispers escape
from beneath my rusty skin,
calling me onward.
for just a little while,
my hindsight got tangled in the sheets.
when I emerged,
I saw cracks in heaven
& you —
deliberately strewn about.
_________________________
photo credits: demilked.com
wrap tattered heart in stoic plastic,
smooth the barren earth which you call home
what once you deemed enthusiastic
now grieves beneath your hollow, shattered dome.
so shall the rains unleash your sorrow
wash burden far beyond your lover’s touch
place careful steps, seek fabled tomorrow
for in the end, the hurt won’t hurt so much.
_________________________________
(Yep, I cheated with the meter. Ha.)
swallow me whole ~
for the cannibal in me
never wants to feed again.
at twilight you find me, searching
for the rosy glow of a long forgotten star
that soothes the eye of the beholder
and leaves me with delightful costumes
to unfold.
filtered sunlight caresses
chalk hearts on mag(net)ic pavement
and i salute those rebel kids
for still knowing
how to play
there is a myth, clinging helplessly
to the bare branches of March
officially permitted
to drown in wifi waves –
stamped and notarized
life is in a hurry,
sporting business suits and clenched jaws
(get out of my way! no time, no TIME!!)
and i wonder
if there is a code in these fateful digits –
the true message:
2525.
turn your back, playfully
and fumble
for your identity
in a lipstick-laden purse,
smiling butterflies upon
the ones who never care (to dare).
when Goldilocks hits the pavement
she will take the fall
in bright red stilettos,
fishnet stockings
and well-worn dignity.
would you dare
to care?
on a larger scale,
does the weight of
words left unsaid
increase?
perhaps
we should pound them
and weigh intention,
not letters.
hold your breath ~
let phantoms fly from your disgusted soul
to tear jagged-stemmed blossoms
from ever-b(e)aring flesh.
hold your breath ~
and rage along the edge of sanity
’till nights dips into morning
and sandpaper screams subside
on tattered tongue.
then
breathe the sunrise.
misty mo(u)rning shivers
in the crystal clear cold
& dives, frog-legged,
into the still green-stemmed ocean.
it is a marvel to see
strain strip
down to nothing but
a dewdrop necklace, suddenly smiling ~
and deep within the heart
the golden dragon
stirs.
I could be
a moment, tipping
over the edge of space
to fall
and never fall
again.
I could be
a letter, lost;
curving,
curling black on fading white
where words are left
unspoken.
i could be
a trace, sighing
on the shores of nowhere, turning
with the tides
as faces
change.
I could be
a life, swaying
on the thin line between
high heaven & rock bottom,
placing careful steps
in worn out shoes.
I could be
this world, unscathed
and never fully grown, as ages float
among the clouds & leave
the faintest kiss
on greying hair.
I could be
whole
& scattered all the same —
but in your arms
I simply
am.
upon the winds, a fatal blow
sends maybe to another place,
and stirs the beat of cold, blue hearts
to meet the serpent, face to face.
upon the winds, a battle fought
with teeth and nails for dearest life,
and purest words evolve from ash
to cloak in light this endless strife.
upon the winds, a second breath
springs from the seed of newfound pride,
that overcame this horrid beast
now fuels purpose, strength and stride.
and on this morn, a soul reborn
perceives the world in more than grey,
lets color flood the dankest dark
upon the winds, she greets the day.
sitting through this blatant lecture
of how and when and why
i doodle seahorses &
flip my mermaid’s tail – in time
to inward seaweed smiles.
at 8:34am i pray
(through glyphs and flowing ink),
that my hand will always be small enough
to fit into
reality’s gaps.
Another Wandering Soul 