Desiccated AffectionsThe windMore Like This
Grasps, a rattling breath.
I can call the wind, tell it
To cease existing.
Black and blue bones,
Tattooed on pierced skin
With the mildew of un-wash tears
On the surface
Of abandoned faces.
To live alone,
to die alone
A rite of passage,
not found for love.
I am the definition of a heart broken soldier.
No more wars of the heart
As the sinew keeping the arteries connected
Are crumbling and deteriorating.
White rocked feet.
Burnout and parched lips.
I tried to kiss the heartbreaker
Her skin was made of starlight.
Truth is pale
Dishonesty is dark.
I am neither.
Expiration DateCalendar days peel awayMore Like This
and tumble down lonesome roads
before finding their resting place
in the gutter, creased and wrinkled,
used up and obsolete,
like every dream I sinned,
and every sin I wasted.
Fresh devils hear only tales
of growing up, my porch stories bitter,
as I rock, and sip sweetened time away.
Copyright © Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
Wisdom In the spring of lifeMore Like This
I explored the peaks,
The swelling hills and cols
Whose lower slopes are clothed
In soft fragrant herbage.
Now with autumn in my bones
A sweeter empathy I feel
Among more gentle wolds and dells
Where soul and body intertwine
In mutual joy and ecstasy.
Snow QueenMore Like This
Shall I find thee all in ice ensnared,
the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,
trapped in a wet and wintry grave -
the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?
They brought you here, their souls enslaved.
The altar where your minions prayed -
a brilliant diadem of ice,
the offering that your cold heart craved.
They linger here whilst you entice
their frozen limbs as sacrifice.
Their wizened hands by you declared
the chosen few who paid your price
MoonlessThe moonless eveningMore Like This
turns its back against the sky
and leaves it empty.
Perhaps the morning
will come back with its hands full,
holding up the sun.
Southern Belle - 2I want to sing you songs on the low notesMore Like This
for hours. Comb your hair behind your ear,
gentle and lingering. Slip into your eyes-
anything. You are
a ripple spreading across me. You are refracted light;
slickness of an abalone's back. The soft pearl.
Idle thought of my afternoon- always, always
I imagine. And Bourbon's not so far:
nineteen hours through a day,
then I could see you. Will we ripen