WhirlpoolI lay captive to golden irises,
hints of green accenting and outlining each lighted section.
It's like a whirlpool, sucking me down and under,
tip-toeing into each ragged gasp, until all I breathe are
Pupils contract, and then dilate; every alteration memorized.
each contraction brings supplementary fragments reminiscent of grass,
and within delirium, black unfolds golden skies.
This tentative bluebird, born from my iris, longs for yours
to cherish windy coils painted twilight, translucent over gold.
Cerulean feathers long to be unobstructed, unhindered, yet dare not to dream, for
disciplinary walls guard old lacerations with care,
focused, and hostile.
However shimmering glints of agony are glimpsed, despite being hidden.
This agony confines, incarcerates, keeping me hostage: an indirect slave of torment.
My lungs are purged, flowing rivers containing simply air.
Loss brands anguish into impaired veins,
until all that bleeds is misery, longing to be gold
White SilenceWhite walls observe these scars,
Red welts of regretful anger,
Marring my skin with nudging reminders.
Each one holds a meaning, committed to memory when carved into
Disgusting skin which trembles before the knife;
It would be easier if indifference did not desert me the minute
Light glints off silver edges, made for slicing and tearing.
It's a hideous sin, but somehow redeeming.
To white walls I tell such stories, these lessons and
Memories belonging to puffy lines of flesh, barely hanging onto bone.
I explain how they'll render me unwanted.
To this, thick tears and sobs out-weigh weak smiles;
I only ever wanted a reason, but this reason I've made glistens with
You're a Beautiful ContradictionIt's damp,
clouds filling the sky with
tension as they always do before a storm.
It's days like these that remind me of you;
The way the cold grips me, then caresses
it's just like your vengeful hand.
It never hurt me with its violence,
only its tenderness.
The light rain, as it begins to fall around, kisses my
reminding me in painful clarity of your lips which ripped,
I cannot say they never hurt me;
they definitely never built me up.
How could the slap come from your sweet whispers,
and not your hand?
It would be better if you just struck me.
It would be easier to leave.
It would be better than this beautiful contradiction,
your words insisting and pushing at my own
worthlessness, all the while your hand wiping sobs from my cheeks.
Here, I kneel in the rain,
crying for a heart that was never allowed to break.
Up ahead lightening cuts through the gentle rain,
violent but beautiful.
I cave in on myself, trying to suppress my own emptiness.
ShifterNight touches the horizon;
a spill of darkness, inky whisps, bleeding into the remaining orange.
They intermingle, slowly becoming darker, until a void replaces sky.
How alike we are at times.
Under this darkness, I stand with a void of my own,
and how it rolls within me.
Always in hours of darkness I feel a timid tug within,
as if the two long to touch,
these pits of nothingness born from dark depths.
and just like this void, in the day, I, too, am bright and someone else.
Yet, when night lets its blood drop onto mountains soaked with sunset,
my heart, too, is overcome with black.
Each moonless day and sunless night,
I shed my skin for someone else.
When You Know TimeWhen the rustling leaves are swept away
into the vastness of Autumn sky,
and when lonely pathways become populated
with lonely contemplators,
you'll know time.
When chilly North winds blow through tall bending pines,
and when robins give chase to Summer's warmth,
you'll know time.
When the fragile bodies of butterflies dare to grace the skies,
and when the gentle kiss of dew upon grass feeds
a young doe and her fawn,
you'll know time.
When the memory of heat regains the glory of all you know it to be,
and when the leisurely waves make once again their
home on sandy beaches,
you'll know time.
Though perhaps not as well as the elder on the green painted bench
who stoops to feed winged doves,
and perhaps not like the towering sequoias in forest reserves,
who whisper of strength and knowledge in every perfect ring,
but you'll know time,
and what a long, tormented master it can be.
WarmthPatient skies filled with splintered clouds,
each sewn into the blue expanse like organic lines of art;
they lay watch over sandalwood beaches and gossamer waves.
Rays of sunshine stretch,
extending yellow-ocher fingers as if to touch the earth below.
Without a doubt, Summer is here.
It's in each azure wave that crashes carefully onto sandy shores,
in each bite of beach salt water steals,
swallowing footprints and caressing sandcastles.
The Prince of seasons reigns,
triumphed only by its child of volatility
spawned from warm colors and frigid winds.
However, the coronation is yet to come,
laying dormant within warmth's castle,
comparing the waves to Summer's heartbeat
This heartbeat perseveres,
up until its final moments,
leaving behind willing leaves and
the beaches lay solemnly bare,
deprived of waves and children's footprints.
TulipsFlowers breathe life,
stretching petals up and out.
The scent of hope is in the air;
it's every bee that pollinates the tulips,
every grain of grass that shakes off Winter's residue.
It's new life, born from death and silence.
Yet being fathered from such ghastly things
leaves no grotesque effects;
such beauty, born from destruction,
to gift what remains hope.
The cold memories are just that:
nothing to be remembered.
Frosty FingersWhite crystals of ice, gathered together to form rolling hills that
shimmer in murky sunlight.
White dusted roads and trees,
even on the branches that are closest to the sky
This world void of color, stretching on endlessly,
and when the clouds overtake the blue expanse of sky
it all seems to merge into one;
winter's bony fingers leave nothing untouched.
Everything shivers in icy confines,
in which desperate rays of sickly amber
can neither penetrate or disturb;
here, slumber is eternal.
Solitary houses serve their sentence in frigid silence.
LeavesSighing winds trickle through branches dipped in sunlight,
and run wispy fingertips over each dangling leaf,
too busy shaking in its icy presence to maintain a firm grip.
This leaf falls,
sliding downwards like the lazy trail of paint when
it escapes its designated wall.
It turns in the air: flipping and twirling,
exactly how children twirl dandelion stems between pointers and thumbs.
It just spins and spins, having patience with each completed circle.
Finally, it lays a kiss so tender upon forgotten pavement.
Thin edges curl inwards with time,
in vain attempts to keep freezing winter winds away from colored warmth,
now nothing but a memory.
Edges curl tighter still,
undergoing the long wait;
autumn is no more.