Friday, July 27, 2007

I see (finales)

I see, yes, in you, displeasure
As you lie and toss your hair

I smell the fragrance of undoings
They way we’ve kept to this cold air

These times, they’ve come to change me
And change you, inside this night

They’ve come to wrap and bathe me
So that I may wake, when skies meet light

We were the pair, who kept to sandals,
And now we’re marching stone in feet…

Cause we’ve awoken from this slumber
With new realities cold from the street.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

stone lord

Stone lords – marching on stone ravels
A snare drum in between each trot-full hoof
I see them, and so the shivers…

‘Cause each frosting of the mourning; leaves wet
Wet – wet from my own birth.
Another dream, now killed from mean labor…

Is this an airplane?
…Or perhaps some old wings?
The skies will tell me, but won’t say

And so my hands drop, to reveal inside ghosts
Weird waters, now, I must play.

Monday, July 9, 2007

where is the you

And I bid this utterly unfair, the ways in which you hold onto past affairs.
And sing with them, back pockets. Where memories graze and hold on,
We were vipers in our own venom…

And in my own mind’s nectar, I sift for glances of your skin,
Pleasures from the old country, where the city hadn’t turned us into communists, yet.

We were fair, like children, then. We also shared the strongest of reason hands, and again I claim yours to be back pocketed, in the now of this time…

Mine? Open to each and sudden flux of vapored time that happens to eat change at my own soul if I to see you again...

And! Don’t say you know what’s best when only your own eye-lids you know. When only your own assumptions aid you through the studies and degradations of me and my past characters. And will these personified hooks swing round again? More than likely, from time to time – but so in this cycle sprouts the absolute definitions of me, and with that said, justification.

So, if you, or anyone else, does wish to break parts at this declaration or cut views at my mind, then a cutting of roots I shall force my hands to scissor, in preservation of the only known permanent commodity that I, or anyone else, can have come to find for themselves – and that being, undoubtedly, the right of sanctity to self.