I cannot reach you
the shimmering mirage
of my dreams undone
there was no triumph
in the sigh that escaped my lungs
but all these moments that reveal
we had made death in our image
and I would be damned
if I did not quiver
at what we’ve become
Poetry
Grey rock Sunday wordle on a Monday
To be a grey rock
as time blends stories
into the room
the downward slide of matter
wear and tear
A ravens beak
to strip it bare
Sunday Wordle: Sigh
A glimpse of a moment
thrust itself into shape
fraught and staggered from the shift
our breath caught
in the thoughts of what if’s and mights
finding ourselves at a low ebb
we sigh
Sunday Wordle: Crosshairs
The Gods cast the die
and scribbled us into formation
our digital gaze upon the earth
our lips sewn taut
caught in the crosshairs
of our own deceit
we created light
while painting the darkest of times
Day 24: Wolf Rising
The sky was aglow in orange
through the gaps between the trees
a fireball of knowledge
setting the skies to darkness
the slow blinking eye
of a wolf rising in the north
ready to watch over the night
as the owls called forth
Merry Christmas
day 23: I try not to think….
I try not to think about you
but you come into my memories view
and I don’t want to let go
but you’re already gone
I don’t want to think about it too much
I’m scared I won’t make it out alive
but sometimes thats preferable
than this pain inside.
Day 21: Prism
My breath was a triangle
shaping me into a prism
a contortionist
contorting to comfort
within discomfort
the pain a backrest
in which to rest my head
a backdrop of tidal waves
to slowly tread
Day 20: Hung on
I hooked my umbrella to the words
and hung on
a heron waiting to unfurl
clinging to this song
waiting for the moment
to be okay with the world
rain and wind
blasting storms
life is a river, never static
to every word
I hung on
Day 19: Contortionist tree
Ever the contortionist
the tree twisted gnarly limbs
branching out in all directions
many a perch for the crows
and those wise black eyes
that surely know
the tree had weathered many storms
only the crow could tell
when the crown would fall
Sunday wordle: I will not linger (Or perhaps I will I can’t seem to help myself.)
I will not linger in the storms you pass
That’s a lie, I know I will
all the signs are there
or rather torn apart
that you’ve been through
and I’m sick of you
and myself
because you leave carnage in your wake
some subtle some not so
and I always chase after these feelings
and afterthoughts
anger tinged with sadness
but I prefer the anger
till I do something rash
then I regret how I left myself
drifting in your storm
you cast a spell on my mind
treading through your footprints
knowing you’re always one step ahead
always watching
I can’t afford sympathy for you anymore
Probably neither the anger
but in your storms, I drift
and in my mind you fritter away my thoughts
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