Afternoon

I do not dream of you anymore.

No longer do you inscribe your insignia upon my chest,
and suffocate me when I strive to breath.

You are no longer the violent vehemence of the sea,
but the fog as it dissipates between my fingertips.

No longer do I need poems,
to express how I feel.

You offered me words,
when there were none.

And I suppose I will always be thankful for that.

But you are no longer the ghoul beneath my fingernails,
or the ghost that lingers in the blinds in the morning.

I have found my own sunlight without you.

Taxi-Cab

I am not the dull sadness
of a cream colored room
at nine thirty on a friday night.

      A room identical to yours.

I am the crisp sway
of the evening fog,
as it blankets it's creations
with a remote kindness.

I am human,
and the poison that seeps
through my brain
is not my master.

It does not control me.

I am happy.

You

You are the chattering in my head.
            Stop. Stop. Stop.
You are my nerves in the morning,
or the waves,
as they flood my chest
while I stand barefoot in the kitchen.

You are what I wish to remember,
and what I wish to forget.

War In My Mind

It engulfs as it dances,
innocent in origin.
It calls from forgotten window panes,
and rushes to join decrepit creeks.

It longs for a companion,
velveteen skin drenches hair and eyes
blurs vision until it is beautiful.

It finds solitude with wandering souls,
whispers coaxing poems into deaf ears
with the singular hope that it will be heard.

It will be forgotten.

Cannons

Traipses through the afternoon air,
fingers curved to the texture of bark.

Her silhouette begs him forward,
offers him shelter from the storm.

She pirouettes through flowers,
finding crevices in which to hide.

He knows her name like it's carved on his skin,
and he sings it like a lullaby.

But she ignores his plights.

And soon he finds himself
discarded among the waste of nature.

For once he finds no beauty there
and drowns in the chains

that concave his thinning ankles
and tether him to the reality

that she is not his.

One Love

He finds beauty,
in the curve of her smile,
and the scent of her breath.

She is lost,
without the he,
an emblem of his satisfaction.

But they are not beautiful.

Decrepit pieces,
of words sprung from branches,
that spiral from spines.

Love is as foreign,
as the words they mutter
from their mouths.