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And when you look back
On everything in your life
Will you remember
When I was a child
That I trusted you?
Will you remember
That I loved you?
Will you finally admit
That you made a grave mistake?
Will you feel remorse?
Or will you deny
The things you have done
With your dying breath?

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Late Afternoon In Early March

I sometimes forget to be fascinated

by the slanting glance of the late afternoon sun

whispering into my cramped backyard.

The jays and robins are discussing something

with great deliberation while the leaves shiver

in the tentative mid-March breeze.

They flutter, fly and flee with such

confidence, such grace, without effort

or trepidation, without grasping at the sky,

knowing it will hold and carry them.

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brought to bay

A nightmare -
slash and burn
and public executions
the colosseum walls broken
spilling a thirsty flood
onto satellites 
the berserker roars of 
encore encore!
the fat lady singing
but no one hears
no one hears
with ear drums burst -
Let me wake now
I want to be awakened by song 

shhh…

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Kaleidoscope

 

equivocate illusion

in vision's luminosity

shifting sand of pattern

 

maybe life

 

colour changes hue

commencing red to blue

blind eyes begin

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please stay

 

like oxygen to fire

sun to the earth

life to the heart

 

I will be consumed by your absence

 

stay

and make me your home

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My best friend has fallen in love

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I tell everyone......

 

I tell everyone about you

 

I tell them of the sunlight in your smile, the ocean in your eyes. I tell

them how my love for you is a mountain. Unshakeable. I tell them how you loved

me once but like the forest you grew too fast and i was lost in the undergrowth

as you reached for the heavens.

 

I try to explain that my love for you is not destructive and though one sided as it

is, you make me well. My failings diminish and I feel almost worthy of attention

but there is only one who's attention I seek to hold. But you look to the sea shore as I

float to snow covered peaks, my soul; no longer burdened by twenty-one grams is

carried to heights by a dreamers dream of lightning dancing with water. I try to

explain that my love for you is not destructive

 

I tell them how I love you and now they don't call me anymore because they

cannot understand how I speak of love and it tastes like pain. They cannot

understand the chaos of longing unreturned tattooed across my brow even as your

name stains my lips with joy as it spills forth

 

I try to explain with a smile but the tears fall. I smile and cry all at once

and my voice fails me for your residue in my soul lifts me to such heights that

I cannot breathe. The boundaries of the sky are not for the living so I am torn

back to the dust and mud by the gravity of your face turning away from mine,

crashing down with anchors around my waist sculpted by words said in haste only to

be reworked and shaped for another. Words hung in both our galleries but I know

the form and flow, it is not a new piece He holds but one stolen from the walls

in me and replaced with counterfeit nothings. Watermarks cannot be reproduced

and those that stain my face are far from dry.

 

Does He know that those words painted on his chest are mine? That the art

staining his flesh is an echo of the masterpiece that you sketched across my

bones? They are watercolors that leak from my broken eyes, I am losing you one

drop at a time but you are an ocean and I will shed floods of you and still

drown each morning

 

Some have said move on, some say get over it.

 

But there is nowhere to move on the mountains peak, how can I get over you

when you are Everest? I am standing on top of the world and there is but one

place higher, though I am not Icarus. You know, it takes forty two and a half

seconds to fall from the roof of the world. Thats seventy three i love you's and damn it if i

dont say them every time...

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a week's worth

I wish I could tell you which ones are important.
I know you’d say the same, if you could.
It’s cyclic, and it doesn’t really matter,
but it doesn’t stop the sensation, all the same.
Repetition is our creature of habit,
not the source, but the product.
We paint the ceiling with metaphors and French songs,
or Moon River from the balcony, a couple generations back.
We’re absolved of love or whatever
cynicism we use to disregard our absolution. 

It’s cold, and everything is frozen over
but it feels like spring in regards to days past:
You’re lifting up from yourself
and flying away, one body still on the ground,
the other, five feet up and looking down at the same thing you are.
And it doesn’t matter which one is you.
And which one is not.
We can’t all choose significance;
Such is the sense in negation.

 

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How long shall this winter last?

Vast ocean to ice.

At least your breath warms me.

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water drips from faucet

             distant motor sound

 

loneliness is unbearable