it was music for
reflection
on a stroll back
home
that lead me to
the trees,
i swear they arched
a little closer
to make sure i was
breathing,
at once, i felt both
held and seen
standing lone and barefoot
in the street.
Author: grumpygorman
an aged wood bench
painted
white,
right beside
a no trespassing sign,
can still spot graffiti
lines,
though can’t quite make out
what they read,
behold youth bursting
to be free.
i’m feeding glass to
time machines..
that belch out change
like copper
rain,
tripped up by wires
were never
seen,
eyes scraped raw,
teeth tinted
green.
all hours and
money..
spent
on emptiness,
were lessons well
worth the
cost..
and any sleep
i’ve lost.
pet’s eyes roam
the room,
a clock arm
doesn’t
rest,
panic beads
upon my
neck,
i trace notches
in the door
frame..
fearful you’ve forgotten
your way home
again.
you stopped
taking
calls,
i learned how
to sing,
but no one hears
a thing
with red eclipsing
eyes
from flames
nobody
sees.
open to what’s
next,
loving like a
child,
life’s not as you
warned,
i recall feelings..
not facts that drag
me back
into questioning
intentions.
fractured from the
pressure,
i’ve wanted it
too much,
time with you
was the good dream,
you knew just when
to leave
but taught me to
stop running.
planted and
pushing..
strained against
a wall,
poking through
brick,
the
hair caught
between two teeth
pluck it from the source
of its seed,
much like any
weed.
a photo-
torn and taped back
together
in valiant attempt to
mend a memory
that can’t simply be plucked
like a dead
petal
from the lilies you
clutched
while his camera
stripped
you.
hands in the garden 
You must be logged in to post a comment.