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
Without Knowing Myself Better
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.
This Untitled Something
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.
All Tied In
Deep swelling of our chests
- balancing this ebb and haul.
These vulnerable ascents
- weighed against a tethered fall.
We're tied here, vertically
- together, lashed to this stone.
Fingers placed furtively,
- pressed against this crag, alone.
Firm earth 'neath each caress
- climbing old faces of sin.
Tempting the wall, "undress"
- starlight revealing this skin.
These grasping limbs held tight
- returning our hearts back down.
Felt by day as in night,
- passion, into which we drown.
Into Embraced Comfort
and out of my life,
— or my favor
will swerve from and for you.
with the stirring of stars,
your warmth will remain what I knew.
and released, like bliss,
— or acceptance,
given no other choice.
My southern sea,
or ye expanse above,
I'm still proud to have known your voice.
and freedom, balance
— or forsake us,
by bonds that might have been.
Night's best questions,
twinkling beyond my sight,
answer, "We were only meant to begin."
Means to an End
I am your way;
Your better self,
on my shoulders
- not heart.
I once believed
by stumbling time,
Rather I'd with,
than without you,
We still share paths,
Our Home Town
You'll never truly stay around, so let's always try for late.
We'll have streetlamps in the moonlight, lining every traffic gate.
Our town's too small to grow within - you, too restless to stifle;
so when you find yourself longing
for our mossy ol' awnings,
we'll listen and smile
as you rest here a while.
Let your stories wash out on Main, of life beyond the outskirts.
Wilt among our Autumn orchards, shedding to winds what now hurts.
While not always postcard-perfect, our town is always a home;
where strolling down middles of lanes
relieves us each of our strains,
and loved ones you know
will cherish how you've grown.
You're a stranger's soft "goodnight";
that voice which lays us in stolen down,
or that icy trickling 'neath the driest storefront.
You're uncertain answers to firm questions;
"what can you offer me others cannot?",
or a scrawled "anything" on cardboard.
You're the one who will surely fight;
under howls of shared discomfort,
or against those bullets which bury us.
You're the fated color of a life;
those many best and worst choices,
or mere tones and hues devalued.
You're the tears in our strained eyes,
spent laughing wildly into a drink,
or begged forth by our lost and taken.
You're everything you could possibly be;
the one forgiven on stock-exchange terms,
or given wholly to lone compassion.
You're ever passing these crossroads;
a hitchhiker going nowhere at all,
or walking - speeding into why we're "we".