LittleProseGarden

you bleed poetry onto pulp the color of the ink depending upon the day or maybe the time his memory slices and it’s so hard to let go

a heart wrapped around a light post pronounced dead on arrival this time you finally let go this time you won he couldn’t flat-line you

sometimes love hurts more than it helps sometimes it kills you in it’s process

Assuaged now, the brink Adorning l'appel du vide with its silver.

Lamentations sucked into the vacuum Reverberate not. A storm-eye beckons.

Revivified, Emerges the sight: Illumination — once again Whispering of time constructs I cannot

Possess; far beyond my grasp, this you That is permeating my Every subatomic particle, Shapeshifter.

‘Just wait I Might

Put up a Fright

I can’t screw up

Another night

Oh,

what a Sight

I’ve conquered flight

the Up and up

Yet the forest knows those secrets and keeps them close and never forgets, hidden among moss and stone, and wild roots that spread underground like lightening crawls across a dark sky.

I hid all the mirrors, and now I can't remember my face.

It's like the dark side of the moon, that can only be seen from outer space.

The last time you saw me, I was longing for your embrace.

Now I am just a shadow that you remember less and less.

I want someone to pick me, heal me, get me out of this mess.

To awaken the parts of me I feel are already dead

eyes

pressed against distance

each point towards there still

yourself or

I shaped

monads between outlines

looking into the budding tear of

distance

—filled with eviscerated time, it skews the mind.

There are a thousand voids littered in concrete, labyrinthine, turned ouroboros,

we run in circles in the silo,

we cycle, we— the spiral of life, tied into every centennial tree-ring and coalescing tide, whirlpooling into the yawning solstice,

equating equilibrium —charted course haunts, compass falls deep into the silo...

I remember Alice...

We all remember something, but we forget the silo over and over again, it falls away,

it doesn't bend,

it never bends, somewhere in un-memory it stands.

We— hold hands, in a field that has no end.

wicker creel greasy salt stained leather strap on a rusted nail eaten by mice

crates of iron spikes bundles of tax receipts and the names we never called they must have burned in the ditch

-something insightful

-something beautiful

-something acerbic and yet innocent

-soft but calloused in the ways age

begins to close around you like a shell

or a cage

-something that condemns and forgives

-truth in safe proportion, unthreatening

to the self-delusions needed to sleep

without guilt or nightmare

-something revealing of regret

but marked by hope

-something regarding love or hate or

maybe indifference if the mood is right

-some personal history expressed

in allusion and allegorical myth

-something that moves like touch,

like breath, like skin upon skin,

mouth upon mouth

-some sex, if only to secure attention

-something faithless but willing

to consider

-something brave

-something fearless

-although i am afraid

amo amas amate

lovers i’ve loved

& now

can’t remember them

not even names

tho’ i’m sure there’s

a note somewhere

an old diary

scuffed corners notebook

registering the heat

when they left

maybe some shame

as the anger

drove them/me to leave

& then

there are names

carved into my heart

scars on psyche’

from those few

who attached themselves

like twisted vines

made me warped

to leave become strangers

if at times

i can sound bitter

about these sweet few

they taught me

so many things that i forget

what the lessons were

to incorporate them

into this

my love, and I needed you here where anything is

cultivated gently, but how far we've come doesn't

channel your endurance like it did. There's popular

use of praise that must be so patiently held before

you give it. I remember that it is long ago (and kind

The quiet hum of Sunday slows the pace,

A steady breath within the rush of days.

The week dissolves, a shadow out of sight,

As golden hours dissolve into the light.

The work remains—the discipline, the strain,

The strength that grows beneath the steady rain.

A blueprint held within a focused mind,

Leaving the noise of yesterday behind.

No need to rush the turning of the page,

Or pace the confines of a weary cage.

Just fill the cup, replenish what is spent,

In a fundamental way.

Praying to the gods

This tether will remain.

Whatever we do,

Whatever we see,

When you’re alone

Whether awake

Or under slumbers take