Embrace

The wind is cold. There’s no sun.
Outside, the air’s heavy and stale.
Even clouds get tired of crying some days.
Like the reflection I see on my tar cellphone screen.
An echo of myself, swaddled on this rumpled bed.
Tendrils of smoke drifting round.
Eyes groggy, limbs protesting.
Thoughts muffled by ocean waves.
Drowned out by numbness.
Long and lasting.

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Tired

How can you just forgive everything I’ve done?
When here I am, feeling like I profane the very ground I walk upon.
Is it really that easy to fall asleep?
Because I’ve been sitting here,
angry and waiting to remember how to adore my own seams.

Pass the time

The neighborhood dims, as I try to fill up the days,
Smoking on the porch, drinking off the cold,
Letting time pass, quite unsure what I’m doing it all for,
I keep hoping that once morning comes, I’ll wake feeling renewed,
But everything seems to disappear, blasted away from my frigid view,
Leaving me standing alone with nothing to hold onto,
Searching, screaming for the sunlight to return,
To dribble over my face, cure my ruined tongue,
And make this feeling pass — anything, please,
Come get me out of here.

The Garden of Proserpine

by: ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

 

Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

Continue reading “The Garden of Proserpine”

Languid Morning

It’s gray out, but there’s no rain.
My coffee’s gone stale.
Worse than the cigarette haze on my tongue.
At my desk, life seems faraway.
Distant, here in my lethargic bubble,
Penetrated only by—
Dust showers,
Lua’s playing in the background.
Sounding out against the calm,
A broken voice, beautiful in the infant dawn,
And, you—
Well…
The sun wakes.

Sprint

Sighs slip past lips,
syllables tangled over themselves
like weary limbs.
Sweat bleeds through pores,
encompassing webs of fire and heat that warm,
but never burn. Not truly.
Heartbeats stagger and race,
competing for something beyond,
lost in the unknowable distance—
past the infant dawn,
just over the bend.
And though it hurts to run,
though these lungs
have already endured too much…
Still, I carry on.
Despite not knowing what awaits me over the horizon.
Because pain and hardship changes a man.
But love changes him, too.