Your sadness is my message
For I have lost this control.
My diary has spilled black
Upon every written row.
Demon show yourself!
You are yet a mystery
Each time it implodes,
And your matinee
Has left my evenings dry,
Lost into depths
Of a fire now spent;
What would it feel like to have your neck in my lips
Your skin so close to my heartbeat.
Would your eyes look up at mine
From the top of your conscious gaze?
Would it be your fingertips or mine
Tracing entangled veins, tender areas
Upon a dreamscape of freckles and moles
A back opening up like hidden pages of a precious diary.
Would we’d twist and roll
Like two logs in a well kept fire
Burning as slow as we could
So each new ember could linger upon our tongues?
Would sensations erupt here?
Down our traced spines
While our roots began to slowly grow tighter
In a full surrender to our nature.
I marked my diary with a black heart yesterday,
Signalling yet another loss of a piece of me
To a lancet, delicately embraced by a cadaverous hand
Tightly hemmed in mourning lace.
Upon my wrinkly pages I wrote of lament so thick
Leaves dropped freely in my eerie breeze,
And my nigh filled dipping pen
Opulently embarking upon saintly rites
Deep into the cold moon’s full embrace,
For this unsettled heart beat thick.
I am flying above your most beautiful memory;
A tiptoe Tinkerbell tapping lightly.
[The old fir who never asked Mother
To learn what a life could really mean.]
Like a thought that followed a lazy bee
On an endless journey through paradise;
An earmark upon pages of a three quarter full diary.
[Wild leaves and sweet salmon-berries
Living in unquestionable synchronicity.]
Falling into subconscious memory;
Movement stepping towards a place,
A place feeling just like home does on Saturday morning.
[No forgotten apple weeps alone,
Returning to Mother in a final commitment of
Love, Energy, and all things unmentionable.]
From this ledge I looked out beyond,
I surveyed the stillness.
Un-avoiding brief glimpses
Of society’s marks;
Transport trucks rumbling
In and out of earshot.
From this ledge I held onto a hand,
I held on so tight to remind me
That in spite surmountable distances,
In spite out-of-control conveniences
I wasn’t alone here;
Alone in my thoughts.
This wasn’t my diary,
This was my acceptance refusal.
From this ledge I plotted.
I took every hemlock and spruce
Inside my heart and nurtured their spirit
To grow with me as I carved my initials
Into their supple skin, raw so real;
Nature entwined my soul and became me
And I became it.
And I lept from this ledge with eyes wide open.
It started off slowly
Distracted to no end
But built up a thunder
With anticipation and mud
The phone rang but twice
The stove was on fire
The water was cold
And the fish were all hungry
The sun boiled down
Mirage on the streets
Yellow turned to red
And buzzards stalked the streets
My mind wasn’t focused
Tiny flies filled my sights
Controls and their dials
Wouldn’t agree with my suit
Complexion was spotless
Comb wasn’t needed
I rolled the logs
Bend the freight
Sold the sheep
Mended the holes
Sought the banker
Fed the anchor
Filled the tanker
Helped the old lady
Wrote down a list
Divided my time
Between comedies and romance
Settled the night
With a warm glass of wine
Blinds that shut
Doors that held out
The flies and the moths
Songs that turned slow
Volume kept moderate
Temperature slightly lowered
Eyes that began to glow
Lights began to fade
Time kept ticking
Drinks ran dry
Alarm was set
Comfy spot found
Peace be with
A night all alone