i dare to accept

a truth. a muffled whimper.
a stifled moan in the musk of the cobweb being more tremendous
than a legion of wolves running through the fall forest.
and the presence of your embrace is enough to stop any heart
and your silence can be more frightening then a lions roar
and there are always choices even if they are the same.

i always come undone by our same.

The secret box


will always have the moon...
and not dare to wish upon falling stars since wishes bring messes
there is always more to clean...
there is always more bending
and always more stairs;
and again, the frost came-
(so, my garden needs tending and my heart a little mending)
and always the corners and boxes-
(speaking of boxes, what happened to your heart?)

same old box, just a different beat;
the echo, sounds strange in the places of purgatory.

The echo’s are troublesome.

i hold tight to the bat on the leg that kicks down the walls
holding back the chains of freedom

until

one day
      i,
beyond repair
and only a sigh
chiming in the wind as the proof of life
knowing
that sigh may warm the frost of your gardens,
so your petals may bloom again,
running red with redemption-
resting at last upon the hands that callous, the softest pillow.

converging

in the rain,
under the moonflowers
the
answer

dripped.

what was the question?

it started with an epiphany. i held in my hand a pencil and thought of....
the harbinger

autumnal heat
youthful patterning,
the abstract and absolute. this time
i am wild in the season of death,
as primitive cells wake from their slumber on a quest for fire.

Lethargic bees swim in the dregs of summers dresses,
disobedient to the wind.
Waiting for coffee and death and a fissure in the wall.
Night is better than toasted pound cake and peach preserves;
the last bit of summer that presents its presence.

present, those damp hands unwrapped Springs packages,
penetrating the fascia of earth in anticipation of her adornment.

Earth tasting of figs, with a hint of salt.

as if waiting for a spark, the late orchestra of summer plays a matinee',
the trees sound a blusterous applause releasing their adornments.
replayed in technicolor for the color blind.
"ooh oh my oh my" echos instead of waiting for depth

and suspension.

It passes faster than a minute in darkness,
flickering across the pages of time.
Where do we rove,together in silent ecstasy?

here.
the answer
encapsulated in a bead of sweat,
reflected in a tear.
traveling the bell jars curve.