Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

“In my heart, time stands still. Nothing changes, nothing grows… no matter how deep I go, I can’t cut myself free from you…”

This is how our world ends,

In that space between a heartbeat

And where our worst thoughts

Are lost into open air.

Isn’t it strange how acute

A simple sound can be?

How an uneven pitch can cut

The same as any knife?

Lines we set in sturdy stone

Are whittled down into dust,

Nothing more than a granite coat

Sprinkled onto cotton twine.

Faced with your whetted tongue,

You flay every boundary and beyond.

Our dreams are red confetti,

Quickly drying into tinder,

And it’s with the bitter taste

Of irony at its best

That we ignite our pyre

With the same spark

We once believed

Was love.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“My heart feels like it’s swallowed up in Autumn, even as the first storm of spring is right outside my window.”

My body aches for Spring winds,

Their tips curled with cotton embers,

Holding just enough of a spark

To thaw the azure April sky.

I love watching that air jitter,

The crystals of swirling snow

Pacified into sleepy puffs

Of sailing Dandelion clocks.

My once bloated, spiked steps

That would crunch and crack

And crumble under my course

Are renewed as thin, mossy lines,

Graceful and unburdened,

And I am able to dance

In the thunder and lightning

Of blossoming beginnings.

In that wind I feel a hope,

So trying doesn’t seem pointless

And I can find myself,

Maybe even dream again.