The Uttermost

Ignite the wrong
the not quite quiet dead
that cannot be remedied
by places to place which burns…

With mighty fire
which cooks everything down
to a commonplace boil, moderate, indecorous…

Exist, may want different boxes of a place
for each and many of these hurts:
Do not place certain wrongs together

they are each inflammable difference
as a burn so deeply worn
will spark on threads so easily vulnerable.

Will there be an over occupancy box for trauma
once the wrong, the wrongs eventually run out of places to hide?

Red Feathered Herring

Fire spooked my desires
balked flames of wilderness
incandescent wandering
Red herring

Dream into a flame
that fleets towards an edge
that shivers strong in the wind
the desert’s dry wind

Ready to mean
Ready red feathered herring?

Gargantuan

Since I’m not a magician
I’m not going to rob you with illusions
alluding to what miraculously went missing.

Since I’m not a magician
there’s no glittered confetti
at the end of each act
since time lacked any patience
to steal your heart or mind away
you might want to depend
on all the comparisons
you were told would
make you subjectively better

and then call it FACT!

Hide Yourself Away

I was the last to recognize the rain
to hear its trepidation, gently at first
on rooftops; distinctively you can hear
its harbinger, a forceful few drops

splashing the likes of endeavours away
leaving remnants of lost desires:
fallen leaves, wet guttering leaves
ruminating over the first time you dealt with
the hours, the seconds that behest hope.

Like no one else has dealt with pain
you tell yourself yet again another lie:

I won’t care so much, care so much

anymore.

I’m a new person

cold and unforgiving.

RoboCop

I’m not a robot nor secret agent
manufactured and trained in a factory
of compartmentalized parts: none and feeling

as this will interfere with my true joy
when and if I do experience the purpose
of this fleeting exercise of being happy

there won’t be any need for giggles
as a solid laugh will be more evident
of nothing and everything…

After Her…

The slow motions
the instant repeats
the lifeless potraits
the ending points

kills the most, since
you become aware

the stillness in the eyes
that’s when you know

her sun has set
the day is over
and it is now a drawing
of her faded interest.

But like a never-ending flipbook
you wistfully rummage through
the flickering stages, only to create
your own images, after her

an eyesight that is ruthless
with its rapid velocity
as it blinks with a new truth
faster than a hummingbird’s wings

showing off how she forgets you
and you’re left with the drawings
where someone new has her touch.