While places vary across earth,
there is one where grief’s waste piles.
Atop gravestone where whispers flow,
it drips and drags where gravel bumps and scripture is engraved,
leading to fertile land
where one’s lost heart lays.
Where sheets and feather tangle,
screams and hair pulled and caught,
it is breathed in where fabric makes tracks,
and soaks the pained resting eyes of a lost heart.
In sterile and dreaded halls,
performance forgotten and all weight shifted,
and life’s direction now unknown due to ignorant laxity,
onlookers and a greater shift keep the lost heart internal and silent.
Our world spins but our sinews,
our tissues grow damper as we cry
whatever reason may be
whoever we call out for saviour,
we bathe ourselves as systole squeezes grief to the world.
Are we less superior to ourselves than realization?
Our temporary shell, our salt, our generation.
Our streamers flutter like snow in Antarctica.
longing and valid expansion, made of mica.
Striving to liberate us, it rips apart its body.
Once again, envisaging us embody.
Systole, diastole, adventure indiscriminately.
The wide open oozes a scent of love imminently.
Shimmering between each of the drumbeats.
Summer, you are the windlessness of such feats.
We ate, kissed, cuddled, and then supped food.
A day's total is a unit of measure for what you lewd.
Need and desire exist in an interdependent reality.
We bury our bodies as a sign of our mortality.
The fate of our remains while wearing the shell
The land utters us the title of a spare body smell.
Synapses are memories, and we are waiting.
In order to cross its boundary, there is no gating.
Written: August 09, 2022
Passion seiged my heart
but systole couldn't even hide...
cardiac arrest
A warrior by nature as summer grew in sultry heat,
I sweated with desire to count coup on the first foe I beat,
Swear by my breech clout I would grapple in hand to hand assault,
Toss and turn this Ute in mortal combat before I halt;
Or steal his associate to my ultra joy and his dread,
Add another feather to my cap seeking it shows red,
Along the Tipi fire I see a shadow stir the soup,
Keenly attempt to pull off a red color feather coup;
Enter slyly to put my first feather to the systole,
In the confounded move I flounder to breath down her taught mole,
Duel precipitates in raw battle weary raptures,
Surrenders to roll within my bison hide captures;
Victorious I swell with sensuous pride and forget to scout,
No witness on sight says the chieftain with power he flouts,
Cheats as he sequesters her away from me in his clout
I am left with out my prize and the red feather he touts.
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