The perfect drizzle
defines the line between today and tomorrow
A morose specimen,
far too endearing to share with our peers
peers out of its receptacle;
a chill destroys its resolve
“if only pigs could fly,
then I’d get myself out of this darned mess.”
It thinks, unwillingly.
The home of a collector
is not to be taken lightly
on days where the sun’s power dwindles
and the comings of months of death
appear on the horizon.
One step at a time,
it creeps, occasionally lurching
towards a white cover of bliss.
Brought back to the silence
of a city’s breath drawn again
when a cloak of winter descends
leaving everything amiss.
At times, when the sea of stars seems
to lose itself in vastness of the night
I’ve often longed to hear crisp footsteps,
ones I’ve dreamt of ad-nauseam;
despite the harsh and cruel winter,
they echo the sound of my love’s path
finally finding its way back
into the warmth of my tender embrace.
What is it, about being a woman
that drives us, to feel lust
nay, neediness, longing, expectations
of the opposite sex
to WANT, to need, to succumb
to loving us?
It’s like taking the first hit;
wanting every moment
to inevitably feel like the next.
A drug of the heart, a survivalist’s wet dream,
suddenly the nightmare of the other.
I loathe the void I’ve created
within the absence you’ve brought;
the coward who parades around
as a hearty lion, navy suit astounding
the driver of slumber long deceased
brought back to life in a dusty dream.
Nothing is everything,
it all resonates like bass hitting a temple
wishing for change, but unwilling to understand;
the dance slowly dies
as the reality of one love lost
bites the dust, of poetic abstinence.
Heed a lonely cry, in the distance
a single ring on a finger
symbolism of something so untrue
it might as well be dead.
I’ll die too young
to see the fruition of your honesty.
Life is crisp in the fall;
transformative times of leaves and tea
a cozy mess of understanding and love
where blue skies meet orange ents
and wasps formerly flew up mountains.
The greenery seems to take on
a hue of gold and hydromel,
beckoning the old gods to come forth
and sip from her offerings.
Seasonal fruits lose their passion
and brutish cucurbits resurface in troves
eager to potage their way
into hungry city-dweller’s lives.
From the inside of my glass cage,
nothing seems all that different:
the sun’s rays hit me in all the same places
but when the doors open again,
the wind will no longer be warm.