craving inner
silence..
but dreams mostly
of violence,
wakes up to own
scratches..
clutching a book
of matches,
yet rises to
face..
the
quietness,
a lioness,
she is.
shadow work
absence grips
on tightly,
thoughts of your
warmth
remind
me..
how
to feel-
with empty
space
beside
me..
but never
inside.
too many
angels
for sinner to
handle,
one hand cups
a candle,
the other gets
burned–
in healing’s the lesson
learned.
the waiting
room-
a loaded
queue,
all doom and
gloom,
called to a
room,
rushed out a
door..
without the cure that
i’d hoped
for.
untethered the
summers..
laid shaded
in shame,
flattened by rainclouds
we could never
tame,
unshackled the
remnants
of steel round
our ankles–
thankful for a break
in the grey.
what might we
have done,
were we to know
the now?
more dry
sweat
on
furrowed
brow?
where would we
have flown
with wings fully
grown..
and how?
songbird on
the wire
pecks at
sky..
and flies into
a hole-
to bewilderment
of crows
on hydro
pole.
stippled ceilings-
prickly feelings in
the depths,
quickened
breaths,
headlights gloss
a window
pane-
sweat stains an
unmade
bed.
please don’t tell
my future,
i like a good
surprise,
do feel free to
read my
palms..
but know i don’t
follow
straight
lines.
flicker
to full torch-
an ember to
ash,
ignite passion’s
light show,
with bat of
a lash,
no need for answers,
if onlookers
ask.
hands in the garden 
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