Anti (day 3010)

I spoke to you before the call came
Before wind swept the landscape
As barren as the cold snow felt.
I listened to you inside my soul
Open hands and an open heart
Hearing your words,
Your doubly whispered thoughts
Detailed glances
And hands that held a universe of emotions.
I waited for your touch
Like a tall Spruce tree waits out Winter,
Bowing at engagements,
Reflexing against the pressure,
Silently bearing the mounting
Depth of moonlight and dropping temperature
With a full and well understanding
That with it shall come its anti.

To Not Feel (day 2974)

Why am I condemned to something I cannot feel
I cannot arise
For in gold there erodes depths of cast
My hands have dried and begun to fade.

There is something that has grown
Not allowed to pursue
A lingering touch held too long.

Without light
Day at once ends
Cold sets in
Song remains silent
Heart enters slumber.

My Dog, My Pal (day 2935)

I felt you in the rain
Streaming down my cold face
Remembering how you cried.
We had always spoken
Every morning and every night
How time passes what now feels.
It wasn’t there that I lost you,
Nor could I have held you tight,
It was the night that I remember
I looked into your eyes.
Sleep came soundly
But awoke with quite a start,
A sadness I had left you
Always be my dog, my pal.

Dogs (day 2928)

I’m going to crawl out sideways
Like I’m carrying a hard edge
My rhythms backbit the scene
So I was ongoing madness descended
No matter the words that I spoke
Two syllables released my mouth
Gravelling and loosening
With a steel shovel reminding me
That a cold soup is awaiting my return
And a method of grandeur
Has gone forbidden and exhausted
And dormant as dogs fall down.

Cold Stream (day 2792)

When the wind blew at my door
There I was standing tall
I saw the drifts of snow gather
I heard the poplars clack together
And deep within my cooling heart
I heard a groan so vivid
It symbolized the burden laid
At the foot of my days toil
It symbolized ice cold water
Gathered at the stream
And every step upon
Frozen soil with a cold shovel
It symbolized the sweat that broke
Each sinew in my back
To which I closed my eyes tightly
Forehead resting on the window
Wind blowing at my door

Growing (day 2783)

I don’t walk with a swagger
I’m not a callused hand
I don’t wish for stars
Or four leaf clovers
I sing with a guitar that holds a tune
But my voice is held under water
In a rusty tin can
So I sleep in a cold corner
With a sore back on my side
I run out of gas
When I’m driving too fast
And my knives all go blunt
So my pencils aren’t sharp
But I’m still trying hard
To grow something again