Clovers

Futily I search deserted tundras
For six leafed clover
In Fata Morgana mirages
Morphing, distorting, inverting
Sequentially imagined scenarios.

The harshness of veracity
Shoots flaming arrows of certainty,
Voraciously confirming
Fata Morgana promises
Of travelling distant lands
That were not targeted towards me,
Piercing this soul of its fetidity;
The offensive odor of pomposity;
To have the audacity
To have even an inkling of suspicion
To think that
That tumultuous wielder
Of golden tipped arrows
Would point such artillery
At such unworthy targetry.

The sombre of mendacity
Feebly folds in margins of duality
Of acceptance and repudiations
Where Fata Morgana regions
Supply convecting refracted reasons
Of changes in emotional climates;
Discarded ancient promises dustily
Recovered over realisations of finality.
You were the catalyst for germinating emergence
That were pushed out from underneath;
From soils of freezing and thawing cycles
Where permanence didn’t stand a chance;
Still, even in beguiling barren landscapes
In another flickering optical distortion
I see fields of clovers.

Weakness

I hope I will see less of those disfigured
Reflections of derisible comeuppances made
Undesirable, god owned inflections of disturbances.

Weakness?
You dislike it?

Overcome it.

Seise that crazed rabid ram
And wrangle it
Into the ground
Instead of rampaging
Around trapped entanglement.

Accepting inertia in hushed hysteria
Believing in the wooden tensions
With crackling voices of panic infused
Pathetic whimpers of choices tumbling,
Ascending ionisations of the unknown;
Formulating negative and positive charges.

Tell me again
How you are powerless
To control the outcome.

When I know different.

The distaste
Of weakness.

I can do whatever I’ve decided I can do.

But.

Sketched

How quickly we’d
Jump in front of the gun.
Sometimes.
I paint the worst scene first
Filled with paranoid colours
From scrawlings of sketched contours.

Is it the past that haunts
Or is it the currents
That surge us forward.

What is it
That keeps you rooted
In storms?

If I told you
I feared your ghosts of trauma
That it follows me in the day
And haunts me in my bed
Would you be able to
Just be gentle
For a bit.

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.

Still I Smile

Wilting stalks of love, hate, hope
Strengthen after it rains.
Cautionary winds of revisioned history
Forebode emergent growth.
Snarling, forbidding further discoveries
Of separate realities.
Febrile folds wrinkle, baring ivory
Fangs gnashing at all that is imaginary.

VOLITION?
Wanton wiles that flew in waves of hilarity,
Binding me as the sole wielder of liability.

Such ridiculous accusations
Surely can’t exist.

Where Truth Lies

After the light of euphoria fades
I am granted brief release
From tunnels of cyclonic despair,
Her sweet aria sounds rebound,
Her coded ethereal aura coax,
Or as a hoax it prevails.
Delighted to be given
Vision into her cosmic folds
Once again
Hope gyrates and engulfs,
Doubt roars its gongs
In streams that roll down plains.
Still, she stays seeded as conjecture.
Even with the slightest indications
Of god given blessings.
Still lost in this rabbit hole,
Unable to ascertain whether
This be dream
Or nonfiction.
As avoidance of pain pushes me away
From wanting to believe in
Happy ever after’s.

Unable to sense
Where truth lies,
I relinquish all acquittances
To father time.