trees taking root

In my sordid pining I find myself at the riverbank, Peering into the murky insides of this ancient beast, From maw to belly covered in earth, Not but a mirror of the sky and I stand between death, I pray for the rain to come and disturb my reflection; Ease my mind to mud again… Heavens! With chroma or turpentine, Paint me an angel’s face? So that with my own being I might inspire All this beauty I can feel inside. Instead I see the unhappiness I’ve encountered, In the frown I try to reverse.  I will wash myself clean and hope not to rust.  I will wash away the pain of revulsion or at least my vanity.

The only place where our words could stay cold, preserved, was there in the earth of the root cellar two flickering candles burning low in thickness of thoughts far too precious to thaw for any ordinary feast of the flesh, or churning of smooth confections. For now, the only sustenance was in the salt of tears warm enough to venture down into sweet nothings, to season the sound of our smiles in the darkness.

Say my name again, I want to know what it feels like on your lips I'll tell you yours; somewhere between sunshine woven into clean linens and the morning wind lulling the crickets and stirring the bird songs ...  ..Something like realizing a heap of broken twigs can function as a choir loft; and the first time waking with a new purpose.

those specks in the sky, each a beat of a line in some infinite poem, and the freckles around your eyes, just waypoints to guide me home.

Wherein my heart, does chirp a clip-winged bird with ivory bars to keep it's treasures.. Chiming along with the clock song, and resting between measures.

The few in command take the entire forest for one cabin Built on the blood of Earth & the bones of good & able men; All dried up and empty now, fine kindling for a slow burn.

you are the best thing that never happened to me

This is just how my heart was meant to break Like the soft voice of a ghost calling me home The kind that makes you believe in a God again, Absence felt like full body blood loss, pins & needles. 

We are like the Shamans of the ocean, you and I Whittling magic from drift wood and broken shells. 

IF what I felt as I heard you breathe words for the first time wasn't love,  then my ears weren't made to listen, nor my heart to beat. 

If your words turn to ash instead of embers I would breathe my last just to see your flames lick the air again I would fashion those words back into fuel, and send signals to heaven.