so this is where you've been.
so this is where midnight delivered you
after you broke that stupid clock, again.
should i be surprised to find you
lying on the floor, toasting the dog bowl
with your bubbling cider slucing
across the floor like someone painted
a path of disappointment for it to follow.
so this is cold indifference.
so this is why your father made that
ball and chain joke after our wedding vows.
after you laughed and decided our love
was akin to inprisonment, somehow.
at what point am i allowed to be angry,
at what point is my kiss not enough
to keep you where i can see you.
to keep those horns off your head when you
take too deep of a swallow.
the devil's drink burns your tongue and i
actually can't do this anymore.
i guess i'll just turn around
and leave you lying on the floor.
i guess that's all there is of us, now.
the wind is alive, today.
it moans and batters the walls of my house
like it means to find a way in.
like it wants to peel the roof off
and let the rain sink into the carpets
to let it become rotted
like the graveyard of leaves i find
every time i step outside.
did you know leaves can die?
did you know they leave a body behind?
a shadow of itself - a carved out impression
outlined in black rot and winter depression.
the wind wants my bones, i fear.
the way it howls for blood, frantic mess
of voices scraping at my house in
desperation and despair.
i'm afraid it wants me to rot with the leaves.
i'm afraid it's carnivorous
and it won't rest until my body is
a carcass in the stone -
hunted out of house and home.
it makes me wonder aloud
could i die
if the wind finds me alone?
victim of conquest
heart impaled the shrikes are screaming
as if the agony is supposed to mean something
more than misery
as if mounting my soul on a pike is meant to
make me fit in just right.
blending into this cacophony of society i must
destroy that soft part of me.
where it's pulse doesn't match my step anymore
because it's dead, forevermore.
a sacrifice rotting in the sun - melting, decaying
and at last it is done.
dripping rot into the earth i emerge hungry
the shrikes have picked clean all that i used to be
so i walk away.
there is nothing left for me in this place.
the old god
i heard the marching come early, this year.
thousands of little feet tamping the earth
just above where i sleep.
they dance the same - their
joyous games played in the light of day.
where the call of 'trick or treat' is
so very loud i
can hear it from the dirt and weeds
because my home is the earth.
it is my house, and the bed where i sing
lullabies to the worms
coaxing them down onto my plate -
along with the turnips and potatoes and
everything that steeps in the dirt like a good tea.
Thanksgiving also came early this year.
i've gone and made my own feast.
but it's when the winter sinks
it's gnashing teeth into the ground
that i find my chains to be brittle.
binds of root and twig bloody my wrists
every day of the year -
but an early frost...what an omen indeed.
so early that Christmas might just see
more than just presents and fir trees.
oh, this year...it might just see me.
privilege of the light
there are pieces of me that
wish to be the sun.
a deep longing in my bones
to burn a path across the sky
and leave nothing behind except
that lingering touch of heat.
where my heart aches to sweep
gold rays across the land
just to reach that single
moment of sunset - please
let me dip into the sea like
it's been waiting all day for me.
let me reach the horizon to
sink beneath the waves,
and let me take my time
drowning these golden rays.
because any kiss goodnight
tastes like salt from the sea, and
these fragments of me ache
to know that kind of peace.
in the willows i find
swaying softly, side to side
the barest hint of shadow
outlined in moonlight.
it sings a tune as it swings -
a crooning, quiet melody
witnessed by me and that great,
lonely silver eye.
where the moon, she weeps in starlight -
her blanket of night gives out
a thick, hollowing sob, and
wind catches like air in the lungs.
i am, broken like glass -
my heart left a long, bloody path
as i stare at that bending branch.
grief rises like the tide and i
can't help but sing along.
bloody attention span
but in the end, it was all for naught.
a bloodstain dripping off the clock
plinking between the floorboards
upon every tick and tock is just as
empty as the last time they fought.
screams of accusation leave many a
heart wrung out in cold weather.
something about a soul weighing
lighter than a feather
but heavier than the wrongs that
stained his sallow, cracking lips. stained
like tea over clay.
seeping brown dregs deep into cracks we've
seen, but decided to look away
even though we can smell the decay
how long until the clock is cleaned,
would you say?
how long until the blood is washed
from its perennial face?
and how long until we forget
there was ever a murder that took place?
light and love
light refracts in a myriad of ways
stained glass of green glowing from your gaze
addiction to the point where i must pray
for this world that love creates.
what happens when your voice dies
before it leaves your lips?
what do you do with words that carve
tombstone plots out of the crackling
flesh of a dry tongue?
where do the words go
when they leave me?
do they stay embossed on my tongue,
or do they evaporate;
rising to the sky
with the rest of the world's particles -
only to appear again
when the sky sobs
and maybe unspoken words,
deep into the gray pavement.
wherever and hereafter more,
i will never speak louder
than this bubbling rainstorm.
white retreats from light -
warmth brought by the breath of spring.
the cold left me, too.