Embraced in Dream Beds

I sit
With the light switches
Turned down.
I count
For every 1.5 seconds.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten.
I watch my eyes slowly adjust
As blackness fades
Just a little
From vision
As I listen
To the music
You listened to
Last night
And I feel
I almost feel
Like you are close
Like I could touch.
Like you said once
In moving images
Of us
Embraced
In dream beds.

Colored Insanity

In a single dimension
Where aberrant tones
Of veiled language suspended reality
To a strangely splendid universe,
To enigmatic hypothermic convulsions,
Where extraterrestrial excrements
Laid in lines of converted veneration,
Where lucid intent lied in fluttering
Optically disillusioned scaled wings,
A place where poisoned golden apples
Trailed to nonexistent goddesses,
She flails, seething, boiling in aortic pulsations.
Unfathomable actions hurl the blind and weary
To the unforeseeable depths of ruptured loss,
As disproportionate notions swirl
In psychedelic contours
Of coloured insanity.

Hay Strand Memoirs

In fitful frenzy, instinctively trying
To grasp at predetermined disappearances
While knowing every location
Her soul resided in
Vanished.
Gone.
From perception.

A gust of wind knocks over
A dwindling light from an oil lamp
Igniting hay strand memoirs,
Warping hazes of should have been
Euphoric possible divisions
To impending impossibilities,
Consecutively
Distort contorting images
In flickering reservoirs
Of flaming memories
Slickly licking, creeping
Up a load bearing beam.
Crackling filaments disperse,
Gritting embers singe and then
Helplessly drift in stagnant atmospheric pressure
While another woven strand
Burns and turns to dust.

In Shame

Desperation caused me to seek out
The answers I had been looking for
Visiting and revisiting the same location.
A location that appeared from the formation
Of letters pulled from the pages of poetry.
Day in and day out I’d pull these letters from the edges
Convinced they had been an encryption.
By chance, or perhaps a specter’s sedition,
The place remained the same, the words,
They unscrambled repeatedly in front of me.

I’d arrive at this place, unscrambling letters
On pieces of paper, in notebooks and folders.
I’d wait for directions, hoping it would lead me
To pearlescent gates; where we’d stand, substantiated.
In these letters, promises were made, a scavenger
Hunt had been initiated. I’d make mistakes, or I’d
Reluctantly pull away from the directed course of action
For they had been too much. They were things I couldn’t
Bring myself to carry out, due to emotions, fear or shame.
But I’d stay, I’d knock, on every doorway,
On each floor that had been indicated,
Entering the ones that remained open, uncertain
Of the room number that had been given in simple
Mathematical equations, but no one ever answered.

For months I chased a ghost, while keeping in mind
The lucidity of its being, because witnessing the paranormal
Would have been worth it. But it turns out,
Keeping it mind had not been enough
To keep me from getting locked in bear traps
That were hidden along the way. Hope
Turned reason into belief. The lengths I traveled
In prayer that reached no one, or fell on deaf ears,
Leave me here, in shame,
Tired and weary,
As I dispairingly recall
The foolishness in the pursuit of blind fascination,
While it viciously reminds me of my unrelenting stupidity.

Life seems to be trying to
Obscurely teach me a
Lesson: Don’t chase ghosts.

Especially When

In efforts for furied release,
I hurl white ceramic plates
In a darkened dining room
Against pristine white walls,
They crash and shatter
Leaving splinters on the surface.

Imagination
Somehow alleviates.

Words springing forth from the voices of recall.

I’ve had enough of your voice
I don’t want to hear it anymore.
I don’t want to envision your images
ESPECIALLY WHEN
Everything
Meant nothing.

Such A Love Story

I blockade the borders
Where our time
Neither rescinds
Or progresses.
For if I turn back,
I’ll become lost
In the foreign lands
Of the Sahara;
Where waters run
Dry, sucking
Up the moisture
From my eyes.

It’s better to cast away
Occurrences as ubiquity
Than to deal with such
Unbearing pains
Of what never was
Or abnormality.
It’s better to accept
This tolerable fate;
That I just lost
Base with reality
Again,
Than to entertain
Each impossibility,
Because
Such
Fairytale
Stories
Have only ever existed
In entertainment
In my atomically proportioned life,
Because such a love story
Couldn’t possibly happen,
Not to me,
Because
Hoping
I’m wrong
Doesn’t seem to do
Anything.
Because waiting
For a miracle to happen
Crushes me daily.

I keep wishing
On tiny stars
That he’d speak to me
Again.

But my fairy god mother
Is dead.