Subway windows fogged with containment,

Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,

I am no more darker than light;

Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,

A man who was the sum of his missing parts,

Becomes an adolescent art project,

A halt settles on a counter melody,

A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,

This is beauty I reckon:

Where a disheveled desk holds the great

mysteries of life,

They say Bach is played for God,

And we are so lucky to receive an echo.

I, Ran.

The sun breathes a relief,
As I overturned the dust of you in my hands,
And let this gentle breeze take you away;
You didn’t me love the way I wanted you to,
So I ran,
and ran,
Till I couldn’t run any more.
The soles of my feet,
Grew as hard as my heart,
I buried your pictures,
I burned you down,
And I ran,
I ran.
I sketched you out in dirt,
Brushed you away,
Threw spit into the air,
And watched it rain down,
And I ran,
I ran.
My muscles grew tired,
I had to slow down,
Watching you hold on to me,
As I wrestled you to the ground,
I ran,
I ran.
I will continue to run,
Till the sweat of your memories,
Is dried like the morning dew,
And the Mountains peaks growls like a lion,
Roaring the breathe of me steadily into a slumber;
The cool springs quenches my thirst for you.

Out There

Out There

Out There,
I’m afraid of my shadow,
Because it’s already dark enough inside my head;
The sun dances between concealment and ambivalence.
I step in footprints that are not mine,
Playful like a child;
For a moment, I laugh, deeply, taken,
Skipping unabashed through tentacles of beauty:
Of mountain songs, of listless clings, reconciling demons that burned a depth falling in lifeless pits.
I stretch my arms like mountains,
Fingers brush the wind,
Standing firm upon the snow caps,
Resting amongst the clouds,
Steadfast until you come to me like a wandering Eagle
And you’ll love me when I’m better.
Out there,
You’ll find me,
Nestled in the waters,
Until the damp shores are within my grasps,
I heave and lay,
Wet with spittle,
Until you find me unafraid.

You Said

You said you’d wait for him,
And wait for him you did.
Until the man you waited for cease to live.
He came back with the same eyes that won your soul,
But those eyes held no soul.
And you wonder if he’ll look at you the same as he did before,
If he was the same man who told you you were beautiful the year before,
Beneath a night sky,
Fuming with passion and abandoned,
Embraced in a farewell entrapped by a kiss that would nourish the dry spell.
You danced in a bar filled with breaking hearts,
Before a morning of tearful departs.
You listed all the things he liked,
His favorite sports team,
His car magazines,
The way his scent lingered on pillow cases.
A tribute to the man you knew before
Tremblings and temptations,
Defaced promise and youth.
A year of sacrifice has become unglued,
By rogue expectations and delegations that bury the truth,
That you can’t love what you can’t refuse.
And time is a leaving train,
Fixed on a destination,
Not deterred by our own lateness,
As we run to catch steaming metal,
And medal in contemptment,
Won by a dream derailed from the clutches of commitment.
But you said,
You said.

Call of Duty

We will not be written in books,
As names,
But numbers.
We will fade into the dust of time,
Our sweat dried from the escaping cracks
Of ground.
And we will carry whatever remnants
We have left,
In the coffers,
Brazen with smiles behind broken lives.
We hide in the early hours of the night,
Our faces enamoured with killing objects
on digial screens.
Yelling into a microphone “fuck you dude!”
Bitter between championed teams.
Mountain Dew fuels aggression and suppression of innocence stolen.
Chips are crisp with salt and plucked from fingers that pulled triggers.
Memories blare like trumpets inside lucid dreams,
And a drink soothes the nerves of a dream deterred,
Or so we heard.

We pray that light will shine,
Maybe for a few precious moments our minds drift off into a bliss of calm and contentment.
If we are mindful maybe our resentments will transform into forgiveness.
And addiction doesn’t run rampant,
Unchained in a field riddled with avoidance,
Transported to console the suffering.

Still in the lonely hours we needle every thread that quilts us to a time,
Where heroes dined on succulent dishes of mission.
Now we are confined to living our former lives through pictures,
Depicting a time where life and death were a line shorter than this sentence.