This is not a trail of broken hearts;
Fallen crimson rose petals
Reminding me of each cycle
Lost and reborn
Sun and moon dance.
This is a ripening and maturing
A ferment and bottle conditioned
Led by the golden tears
Of Springs fresh showers.
A frosty morning
With birds calling from branches
Yet bearing,
And a sly cat whispering:
Good day Sir, come along.
Don’t thank me anymore
I didn’t write
And all guest appearances
Have been and gone
A lost ark
A broken pencil
A spent dollar
On an unfulfilling crimson
Shaded by the blur
I drove away
I wrote you a song that I’m not going to sing
I left it underneath an I’ll placed pile of books
I wished I had the tenacity to read
Conscience of my living dreams
Your lines weren’t the usual
Touched with crimson and blush
They were coastal clouds
Menacingly hovering about my mind
In layers that moved at different speeds
Palpable and tingling
But evanescence like words you’ve spoken
That I can no longer remember.
I did not rip the pages at each page break
I did not stain the script with tear drops
And I did not forget to sign my name
Though my heart was clearly laid
Unmistakable and unrestrained
No, it was your heart that was missing
Your heart that floated off
In an un-captain’d lorry
Beyond the breakers and off
Into a dark sea, no more.
Wisdom shocked the senses
Into thinking of a way out.
Too many goblins chatting
At the back door, closing soon.
Laying sun in crimson skin
Knicked at the very tips
Of mirth and exposed bits,
Beneath a woven scarf
Tied much to tight;
Killed in a drunken sun.
This is going to close my mind,
Set me off and be my freedom.
I have loved this long enough
To be pure peace, to be a bird.
So long as lace can call my skin
A safety net against all sin
So let the crimson blush against
All these pearls of porcelain.
In the end of all of it I had a reason.
There were two dots crossed off a long list of imaginations
And the cowboy had everything left to lose should it fail.
But that wasn’t the event there that day, you see,
A long riflesman came staggering in as the town watched
Thinking to themselves about a memory they all-to-quickly refused to listen to.
I couldn’t help but think that I was an envelope,
A whisper sealed away awaiting some sort of lucky ticket holder.
My eyes remained calm as time’s length pushed on.
Crimson was the colour of noon’s high sun.
Picking pockets like a Bazaar thief in Catholic quarters;
The city clinched tighter.
There once was an island inside of my dreams,
Floating with unseen amounts of impossibilities.
I was homesick. I wasn’t allowed to be there anymore.
So for now they sang, in cool shade of a willow tree.
And a stable meant for their local butcher
Fed the gatherers, who all at once came.
Dust kicked up my hallow heart’s worms and sheered into the edge;
At once I was offered fine takings
And imagined I was an elder.
A whisper so hard it broke down my spell
It scared enigma into heaven (or hell)
It washed away dirt with sputtering rains
And bellowed my sorrow into blood diamond eyes
But shivering silently in 2nd hand bespoke
Was a crimson laughter settled in with a smoke
That footsteps sung to all evening long
Fiddlesticks and canyon guns and school yard home runs
Shed not tears into these nostalgic shakes
Be not without faith, my ruby candied cakes
Memories are to guide you forth, a long settled score
Into night’s conquest march with a battling roar (whisper)
Then lifting my eyes to tender so bare
Lightening bolt shine struck with red-velvet boud-air
I shuffled to my flagpole in a partners embrace
And broke spells in a whisper, hardly a trace
Destruction pulls at my madness
With steam whistles and ten year old phone books
Pages loved so much they’re retreating
While the tune of rapidly moving music
Pulsates a crimson so pure my eyes turn bold
I pour myself a glass of that ruby no label
Found deep within the dusty shelves
Of fathers favorite medicine cabinet
Sit down on the ol’ family rocking lounger
And fixate on the blinking screen
Laughing defeat into my already raging desire
Shallow pools of unspoilt water
Sit below a Betty Crocker window
With hanging deep crimson baskets
That fill the air
With freshly baked flowered Mondays
Spreading out is the pony picket fence
That shines White House Tuesday
Separating the gumshoe green grass
From the oilskin decay
Of the Red Riding Hood forest
Sporting Wednesday’s haircut
Half-way there
Here’s where the country house patio
Holds the dad’s weekend project picnic table
Thursday’s moldy sandwiches
Crawls into cracks upon the Indian paintbrush deck
Where Friday morning dew drops
Freshens up the green spots
Under the Saturday afternoon oak
That tickle the fresh from shower toes
Wiggling for joy amongst the John Deer grass
Where taste tests start
Out of the Sunday brunch basket
Two drive-in lovers packed
For their dollar store romance
Fresh in from the Marilyn Monroe raindrops
Settling the shallow pools of water waiting
Under the Betty Crocker window