Fever

When you look at me
Like I’m growing thin
Edges of my sloping chin
I walk amidst my fever ghosts
Lost, dark as night.
I feel the crown
Upon my heart
Fuse into my spine
That never woke
A fevered breath
That sounded hoarse as dust.
For when the game
Of morning light
Awakens this lost night
I will address
My dying breath
So delicate an embrace.

Trinkets and Lace

My view is distorted by lace and flowers
That have begun to wilt and burn
But the lace remains timelessly
Arched upon the bow
That keeps the clouds, so heavily
From my memory
And takes me back to a house I knew
Down Coppers Lane, remains.
I still smell the ancient windowsills
So beautifully exposed cedar wood
Grains like driftwood at the shore.
This pleasure reminds me
How much needed it is
To carry trinkets for the river.

Resting (day 3207)

This is the feeling of broken again
The one that rest inside
And cannot find words to share
Because the words that come
Are accusations
Frustrations
Words that will take us nowhere
A fight I no longer have the breath
To take an inhale for.
So I will close my eyes
And rest my deepest rest
So that I can find within
The soul that needs to rise
From the broken pieces
Resting.

Whisper (day 3206)

Whisper-by-Ned-Tobin

This hurts and I’m not sure
And I don’t want to guess anymore.
So I clap both my hands
To suggest who I am.

Not for a way,
Not for a guess,
Not for a little bit,
Not for the end.

And I whisper
Into the death of my vision
So I may not know
The next steps to be taken
With wind in my face
And a slump, lacking all grace.

Whisper Call (day 3129)

Don’t go calling on a whisper,
Worn out in an icebox
Left behind with gravel
Torn bits of a working past.
Don’t leave it there
For it will fade until forgotten
And cease to mean
What it once meant to be.
Its function will go away,
And its form and vigor
Will become used car sales lots
At the dodgy end of town.
For there is no good come
Of a screw head stripped of groove,
Nor a dollar bill
Faded to dust.

So Goes and Wind (day 3071)

With my wind I have fallen in
With little tufts of grass
Whom stand so brave and tall
Against the snow, so cold.
I have blown across the whitescape
As light shades of brown
As dirt and ice that rip apart
The crisp memory of sun.
So goes the traces of my finger
Deep within the hallow
Sunken to my melting cheek bone
That grips against the snow.
So goes the sweet angel of my memory
Who has left me like a broken fire
That I have no more kindling for
Though I remember every splinter
That has sunken to my soul.

Blueberry (day 3055)

Blueberry, my Blueberry,
She blew away today
Hidden in a tumbleweed
She rolled herself away
I looked and saw the dust storm grow
Watched the trees bend halfway down
Even saw the clouds go by
Faster than crows fly.
All I saw was a dust imprint
Where her blue suitcase had been
And my sweet memory
Of my darling, Blueberry.