Sing to me through broken teeth,
with limbs as shattered as younger hearts.
Sing in littered, filthy back alleys
or from a face unknown to me.
Sing to me your beauties been,
through every torture you've endured.
Sing me out across your sea;
your song is most what raptures me.
Sing to me in perfect notes,
or soundless warnings of all your fears.
sing of intentions more thought than decree,
and still you'll find a listening me.
Ol' Midday Sun,
my own reliable glow,
strains more each morrow
to rise from bed
- lone, beyond the horizon.
In shifting time,
we gleam upon common ground;
a first-dawn fervor
for great unknowns
- joined, gleaning fickle longings.
Our radiant beams,
assumed naturally fixed,
to wax and wane
- free, plastic since genesis.
Oh Midnight Moon,
your faint, ethereal shimmer,
transfix your passion
- craved, amidst eager study.
who draws my affection
in your moments of hush,
I am my own,
When you speak into another's darkness,
it's best your lungs be drowned in light,
and that both respire where the air is clear.
note by note,
I devise each chord;
it is mine,
and my being,
this modern opus.
If freedom is authorship of tones,
and connection is an intimate recital,
then Love, we are our only refrain.
You, Sweet Voice,
now clear in certain reprise
by my every lone thought,
this hymn is me,
played like it's yours.
Winter hath made me forget you;
those who would'st not weather the storm,
nor act upon,
the hope for warmth.
In Spring, though,
I keep welcome to your face again;
as am I when ye follow not my feet,
thou art invited in all my seasons.
For the sun of summer,
we are united in joy;
yearning neither for what was,
nor lost in what will be.
And in fall,
when my path veers treacherous again;
I may always be found,
ready for embrace,
though ye may find me unreachable.
I am a stone for you,
a mountain of will,
and as I, from new vistas,
revisit the geology of my past,
I am known better in my canyons
from my peaks.
I find strands of your hair
woven though my shirts,
of the spaces through
and between my own being,
where I still remain vulnerable to love.
And with each wash
I find these garments cleansed,
yet agreeably fettered, still more
And I know,
should we become apart,
my wounded hands would endure,
powerless to unstitch your fibers from me.
I would stretch my fabrics
to find new spaces,
and fearfully rethread the old
- tattered and doubtful as they may be.
Still a shirt,
a heart without you,
but happier with your inlaid embrace.
You showed me
in the windows of a little house;
how it was perfect,
in its time,
behind snow-laced trees.
where your slithering hands,
in that paved-over shop
which tempted you those earliest apples.
how you curled in wisdom's pain,
shivering in the brush,
the innocent warmth of a still-tame wolf.
His damning trickery,
His cruelty as He cast you out,
by remembrance of that garden.
those plastic-sealed joys,
and the youthful taste of ignorance
- perhaps an Arcadia of its own.
the perpetual violence of Cain,
as your nomadic heart
wandered jealously across his world.
the stained light of morning,
in that temple of empty pews;
and oh, dear Eros...
a glimpse of heaven through your voice.
a feeling thought unattainable,
a realized love,
a long-abandoned perfection,
tenderness in friendship,
how the prodigious city skylines,
cathedrals in a way,
bestow some coveted peace
and entrance our hearts as He once did.
life, from which we ever steal
that flawless wilderness;
where the lost innocence of beasts
sleeps sterile on display.
those renderings of your powerful heart,
rituals of your hands;
how I'd fall willingly into your marks and curses,
and embrace the inevitability of pain.
beautifully worshiped sins in the darkness
there to be seen,
but demanding devotion to be known.
how we've all reached back desperately
for that lost orchard,
whilst our feet strode on,
losing their way in the definition of myth.
sadness for memories that stay behind,
not lost or abandoned,
but whispers of ambrosia
forever fixed in time.
through the perfect trees;
my favored forfeit of a better harvest
for the trees you grow all around me.
Filled with an abundance of your light,
I know I'd let you be last,
and I'd carefully tend,
to our sacred garden.
It burned through our hearts;
destroying the land
the safe homes
where we've warmly nestled our love
where we've grown through our pains.
still within our minds;
and our keepsakes
lying in rest
woven together as ashes
- we continue.
We will be whole again
our hearts repaired
our burns treated
- we can be whole again
have held, and pulled, at stone
or stood loyally atop our mountains.
Had I not
wandered amongst your leaves,
stoic as my seasons changed about me.
my brooks had interwove',
nor I flowed drunkenly through your valleys.
I'd stay here,
a silent moss-veiled cave,
hypnotized by warm daylight on the walls,
and I'd mistake
the ground beneath my heart
for the green, green grasses of some spring-dream.
It's etchings of rivers long dried;
scars of fluid devotion,
those unrequested commitments,
our patterns more so than the notions.
It's summer's wilting of meadows;
counting each blossom we knew,
those waters running underground,
tended rebirths into newer truths.
It's the bark of ancient lovings;
the slow twisting of dear trees,
this intertwining of our roots,
or how we still quiver in the breeze.
It's boulders in mountain saddles;
tense clasping at rough edges,
when cascades shift slower than minds,
breaking down before spring mends us.
It's waltzing 'neath the aurora;
a dance binding earth to sky,
electricity in our bones,
our wondrous lights never lost to time.
It's swimming with the change of tides;
the salty shores we have been,
this shedding of our loosened sands,
how countless eager forms hide within.
It's the circling of the mushrooms;
making homes away from home,
the morning dew that tickles us,
or our conjunct solace as we roam.
It's that small, magic feeling;
that sure, perilous movement,
the narration of the fleeting,
our grip to life before we lose it.