The man wants you easy,
knocking on the wall
for permission
but lightly, not in need
with that spark –
an anger of too fast words
better held without panic
of long eyes and
their fragile warning,
just like the moon, head
held bowed to the sun
is the owed, owned light
from a distance
hunted on every horizon;
those, back turned and running
are a reflection of another
until quiet,
looking upon the face
of one who demanded
what they will not:
a monster, a victim –
and upon the wall slam
the crumbling heart
knocking loudly on the long night
with dreams made vivid
too struck of love,
indelible by necessity:
the own, owned warmth of self
who once gathering flowers
within a cage grew rich
with seeds
now slipping, or falling,
between every crack
having found no door
to ask entrance
grown uncontainable.
Tag: Psychology
Adaptation
Once living in blue,
how deep the hand in my head
loved by a hungry sky
would become sharp of edges,
ripped my born wings that
a songbird bound; crawled
crushed flowers placed
in pockets I thought
could weave a crown.
It was that I knew first
having arms of cirrus:
insubstantial and searching
like water feels every
form of inauthenticity
and fills it;
I would bleed when needed
and not wanting to die
have untied each
found fiction to see
its kinked rope.
When once there was
first, forced inattention
like my mother unable to
hug when unwatched
could it be enough
that never like her father
left her broken,
she only left –
and a love that made me
has tried to take me
and save me same
stumbling into what is
familiar, many times
until older, I have felt
long beneath a snow
like a seed dreams of
a tree they will know.
us, mirror
The way of a mind like a seed
on the wind floats up
instead of with the wind
somehow, or people born
wedged in sidewalk cracks
deep away from the sun
know where happiness
resides tumbling
upon its arrival:
in this I feel almost
a lucky misfit.
Even a self divided is
scattered like pages
lost within the house
with no binding.
I see windows in every room
that inform nothing except
where I have arrived from,
and, I, in every room
stitch a binding, day-
in and out, am
surrounded by a puzzle
of words on paper.
But aren’t us the
song? Aren’t us the
dream and
attuned to truth:
the paradox of remaining
genuine when a melody
unfolding.
