these old pictures seem to
leap out of the
screen
to drag
us back into
our most wistful
scenes.
spiritual evolution
sheltered beneath
fractured
wing
rests
a fragile
quivering thing,
knows not own
strength–
nor that it’s
been seen
by every other
passing
being.
we got to here from
nowhere
and let fears
fall
to see where
they may
land–
our pieces scattered
like windswept
sand.
when my faith isn’t
as strong
as i’ve let
on,
i slither down
ladders
into lakes
of my own making
to bask for longer
than is healthy
for someone craving
something
real.
heartache’s but
a drifter
come to rest atop
the stump,
and
healing is
a warm embrace
born out of
self love.
i fall
into her tune
when i should really
craft my
own
to regale her
deep into the night,
for each
and every time
she’s shared
of hers
to spare me
mine.
life on
a sunny day..
differs little from skies
speckled greyer,
i’m paying the
meter–
hanging from
feeder
in want
of a bird song.
much like
a shooting star,
your flash too far
for me to
see,
scarcely notice you
from bare
land,
but can you
wave to
me?
good vibes roll in
on high
tide,
watch as beach bathers
run inside,
to avoid crashing
moisture,
engulfed
by the waves
we’ll drown in
pleasure.
don’t call yourself
sunshine
in the middle of
the night–
even though
your smile
keeps our bedroom
plenty bright.
hands in the garden 
You must be logged in to post a comment.