The Last Lap
Ignorance and fire
now common partners
lying on a restive bed
The night now owns the day
as the day now basks
in opaque blackness
The burnt-out embers
scattered to the wind
now reassembles with kindling flame
Great hopes and dreams
flashing through the phase
now swaggers in as lost sleep and mirages
Categories:
reassembles, desire, hope,
Form: Narrative
I tell you that love happened first,
In order
In that order— which is to be opened,
Flayed the heart that at first flinched
When the soul would blench at the sound of your voice
That once was love, turned destroyer,
You ask me if it was the chicken or the egg?
I can’t say, I know my heart quivering beating jelly pulpy thing
Would bet on the egg.
I know that heart then liquefies and pours itself out in a massive
torrential hemorrhage
Painting the pathway crimson
Congeals reconstitutes and reassembles into bricks,
That creates a wall that I place neatly back in my chest.
Categories:
reassembles, abuse, love, love hurts,
Form: Free verse
While my eyelids are open,
My eyes are closed.
While my ears work,
I do not hear.
My mind,
Finding no reason to stay,
Drifts out of my head
And wanders around.
At first it floats around the room,
Finding tiny details that it had not yet bothered with
And making a whole world out of them.
Soon it grows tired of this new world
And discards it forever.
Having scraped all the interest it could from the walls,
It phases through the ceiling
And flies through space,
Encountering entire worlds and then forgetting them,
Or simply passing them by as it sees fit.
Time ceases to matter, for it is now immeasurable,
And my mind slowly takes on several simultaneous directions.
As it fills the void,
Travelling in every direction at once,
My mind disintegrates
And ceases to be.
A quiet, sudden noise pulls it my mind back to this world,
And reassembles it to its former state,
Though somewhat fatigued from its cosmic odyssey,
And I am awake.
Categories:
reassembles, analogy, emotions, feelings, how
Form: Free verse
There is a lady I know,
She is never below,
Though she walks low,
And moves slow.
This lady
She has a heart,
That heals those hurt,
Reassembles every soul that is cut,
And restore them to a pure start.
This lady
She has a soul,
That revives those in foul,
Lifts those who are to fall,
To a better eternal growth.
This lady
She has a natural beauty,
That is touchy,
Holds a man’s heart firmly,
And leaves him desire for more.
This lady
She has a voice,
Incomparable to the best music melodies,
A voice that lulls all wounds,
And soothes a heart into tranquility.
This lady
She is the epitome of my joy,
She is the one we committed a perfect crime with,
She carries my heart and, I, hers,
She is the Love of my Life
Categories:
reassembles, love, passion,
Form: Romanticism