They’re Not The Same

There are characters and stories I’d always imagined growing old with,

Looking back on forever as formative to my being,

But while growing up changes a person and our worldly understanding,

Stories often remain undeveloped and unchanged.

There are moments in books that once thrilled or astounded me,

That were once profound, insightful, or full of mood,

And while many of those words still make me feel something,

Their meaning seems to change as often as I do.

Themes that represented the concepts I believed so perfectly

Have revealed themselves to be shallower over time,

And writers whose minds seemed so beautifully percipient

Have fallen behind perceiving the experiences of life.

It’s sad to watch something beautiful be diminished

When circumstances change how it reflects in our gaze,

And characters that fell so easily into our hearts

Transform into beings from which we’ve become estranged,

But, if there are stories we’ve grown away from

It means that we’re growing all the same,

And becoming new and better people will always alter

Our understanding of what the past means.

Sentences and ideals that mattered then can still matter

With new understanding settled into the narratives we’re making,

And the stories we’ve left behind can still inspire us

As we renew our loves and troubles into characters worth creating.

 

 

 

 

 

A Place Away

There was a house in the woods

Bordered by a ring of brambles and thickets

Encircling lush ambrosial gardens

Fed from a narrow cascading stream.

It was concealed by enchantment

From the designs of outside eyes,

Untouched and immoveable,

Unfazed by the works of time.

There, knowledge distilled to one question,

That of pleasure between souls,

The unfurling of tangled psyches

Like fine beaded twine softly pulled.

It was home to several dozen

Who stole away from haunted homes,

Caught lost inside the darkest forest

And running from the world.

In place of statuses and structures,

There are faces always warm to you

And hearts always open

Never asking for or taking dues.

Nothing you thought you were

Or what others did to hurt you

Need go unspoken or lamented,

There’s time to attend your wounds,

And ambitions have all died

As did the barriers between minds.

The house that’s in the woods

Holds space for passions to spring alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trinkets

We belong

Like miscellaneous trinkets tossed

Into an unlabeled jar.

Without a splendid wrapping,

We search out our commonalities and raise them

As a standard to be adored.

Screaming in unison

We demand our due affection

From behind the congealed lace of neglected projections.

For our beauty’s recognition

We chose to betray the odds and ends

Whose identities unveiled our jar’s lack of meaning.

 

Field Of Eternal Sunset

Magic black and silver Cadillacs

Carry us effortlessly out of the city

In singing groups of five and six

Towards the field of endless sunset.

 

Barefooted, we saunter the soft grass,

As cool as the humid air that’s ambling

Through the bushes of lavender, sage, and chamomile

Surrounding the bonfires and fountains in odd corners.

 

The fires are hazy but bright,

And the waters seem to play a melody.

Keeping our eyes open causes the faintest strain

That intoxicates us evenly through every moment.

 

The crowds continue gathering

And soon the fairies are hovering between us,

Fluttering and dancing in silent revelry

To the beat of wings, water, and flame.

 

Wherever you move it stays the same

But the faces and voices endlessly change.

Every action you make costs nothing to take

And each weightless breath draws you in further.

 

There’s a time but no age,

No history and no needs,

It opens up only a sconed

And invites us to escape eternity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Friend I Loved

I sip and think,
Drink, play something simple,
And dream my day dry.

Always talking in invented memories
Between us, our friends, and in secret.

Maybe your face
Has become the placeholder
For someone I never knew but needed.

Maybe I loved
Someone too intensely
Without extending it.

I never picture us having sex anymore,
But I can’t help imagine us being intimate.

We should pretend we just met,
And become friends again
With better experience.

Easing Out A Shout

Lay back in bed
With a sweet scent and sad song,
Breathe in a bit
And spend some time comfortably doing nothing.
Feel your every movement,
Let sensation overwhelm you
And forget about any other
But yourself.
You’re exactly you
Without the stress and complications,
Someone who could judge you
Without judging your disguises.
Would you find it nice
Or simply terrifying, maybe nothing
Even matters to you
When you get down to it,
But if you have the second
To spend focused on your senses
It can open up your person,
Let her shout it out a little.

Sickness & Humanity

When the weight of a thousand deaths
Becomes clearer to you,
It reveals how narrowly we think
Of our life’s disposition.
The film-like determinist bewichment of
Glossy-eyed observance
Upsets and dissipates like snuffed flames
At nature’s assertion.
Travelers return from their dreams
To waking isolation
And open their eyes to an absurd reality
If only for a few moments.

With respect to life and death,
And the consciousnesses thereof,
Look into the mouth of darkness
We’re apart of.
Disease, it must be said,
May be more human than some humans.
That our entirety can be so fragile
Is our consistent condition.
When we remember our narratives
Are ours and ours alone,
The one we share demands consent
To have our comforts overrode.

In the busy days of Death,
What comes will prove our honesty,
And our actions will project
Our real characters into history.
Considering who and what we are,
The choices we’ve elected to embody,
What follows is the shadow of ourselves
And our inherited responsibility.
Impositions of misfortune
Are the most substantial opportunity
To engage with life’s true quality,
And for me to say I love you.

Sensitivity To Warmth

I’m tired of being Imoveably cold

But Warmth doesn’t seem to care for me.

He prefers hearts easier to reach

Over those guarded under lock and key.

Real invigoration is so infrequent

It melts me beyond the use of coherent thought.

It finds me at my most relaxed

And shocks my senses back to full alert.

A warning; If Warmth can reach you,

So can all sorts of volatile expressions.

Good intentions can’t diminish

The fragility of your intimate dimensions.

Born to grave sensitivity

I easily shudder in the light of friendship,

And comfort myself solely

In the snowy luminance of reflection.

Depression Cycles

Silent waves sink perpetually through my chest.

Someone like me shouldn’t think too much alone.

Graves remind us that something can be nothing.

Something about you leads me back where I’d begun.

 

Lying to pacify the waves,

Dying to be worthy of my allotted time.

 

Wind and snow flow endlessly from my foundation.

Warmth and touch are more like burning teeth.

Better than wearing a heart that’s butter-soft.

How long can I hide from thawing in your spring?

 

Lying to savor little stops in my misery.

Dying a little more to feel comfortable alive.

A Lonely Reward, Cold Satisfaction

Listens to Lo-Fi on her phone,

Admiring the nighttime lights of the city

Through streets blanketed with snow

Where unknown treasures are buried.

Cigarette to her lips

Alongside that sensation around her face,

The teeth of wind,

Is all the satisfaction she can take.

To have hung on,

Lived to see another illuminated night,

Stress momentarily forgotten

Despite the punishing nature of her drive

Is worth rewarding.

She needs something, after all.

Time ever-encroaching

Demands a moment that’s enjoyable.

Dawn spawns the first shadows

As she reluctantly remembers herself,

Retires behind her bedroom windows,

And waits until she can escape again.