When the night comes, they gather and speak as one longing to touch and feel with fingertips cold as though to emphasize a point– they fling the moon as an orange peel savagely into the fields every now and then.
Did the sourwood blush just now? Did the wind just break in through the window? I dare not wake, not lift my lashes lest I become a slave to their rhythm, their moans are gunfire that play on repeat.
There is something about the words that form in the line of my mouth, caffeinated tears that flow like November guilt, these creatures come unbidden silently admiring your language, your length and form.
I hear an incubus frantically pacing outside in the bushes urging me to give in to lust, I’ll come unguarded if you promise to destroy me light my lips in shades of scarlet and gold as predictability is drowned by the bubbling of a stream– keep me enticed until the early morning, when shadows part and the world’s bathed in light. Can you feel the determination in my eyes? Come now, admit you are afraid.
It’s a wonderful thought to be had probably because I said something infantile, as we wallow in each other and the coziness of cloudy October days, while breaking through the ingrained pattern of generations and deciding what is best for us.
Could it be that this idea of healing is a seed that has been planted within us? The kind that takes a long time to gestate when we seek to challenge the uselessness of systems and return as chrysanthemums to the fundamental questions that define our being in this world– some won’t understand the metamorphosis that takes place in us, as we reason with sensibility, make peace with the past and the present.
I kiss my way through pain and confusion, longing for simplicity in times of sophistication– deep into your waters there exists a voice that beckons to the rebel inside of me. I embrace darkened innocence ignoring the cries of bygone summers that state otherwise, time has added more dimensions to my being, taught me to cherish joy when it’s found.
Caressed by the sun I stare into the end of beginning, whenever I am doubtful of the raindrops in my life and though vulnerability is my strongest pursuit in writing at times the sky opens up and swallows me whole. I am the gospel of Autumn as I search for truth that’s present in the universe as I feel uncertainty and learn to experience without dread, it’s all right to let go.
Dark as the night, as clouds that form around what begs to be seen I am the goddess of sleep and dreams I am ripples that form in quiet lakes of green where kisses linger beneath the moon in the backseat and laughter echoes in the morning, deny you may but the soul is aware of what the body refuses to admit it conceals its deepest desires but in truth indulges as though giving in to the ferocity of cloudburst, to the redundancy of roses, every second Samhain I transform along with others into a swan feel the end of harvest season drawing to a close and winter emerge as the somber half of the year, as the world honors deceased ancestors– fleeting is time, its weight balanced upon rock-ribbed, pearl white wings I am softer sighs made bittersweet by what remains beyond power, what’s believed to be, as water wise beckons me to listen and share a few stories.
Lily of the Incas with kisses begins to glow, as change brings blues and golds about, the sky bearing witness to words that form on paper.
I find myself curling into a ball as though yesterday attempting to draw emotions out the sweet with bitter, the tame with wild; I am the wind spiraling in every possible direction.
I want to let go of consternation as lips pave the way for questions to engage in, they visit like the outline of the moon in the froth of cold moving forth but bashful, how is it that every time I extend my hand
it flutters like a chortle sounding from the corridors
of a distant dream?
Years of closed eyelids picturing the perfect pitch, the world as we know it is comprised of shadows and lies and the soul being possessed centers upon what shines the most– perhaps maturity means being sensitive to a situation to how we react, my mind shivering at the thought as leaves fall in its wake.
You will find me obedient as a flame at the end of a lipstick stained cigarette, let October be as unspoken letters let me tune in to the song of the seas, as I give in to transformation something bluer
than twilight and impossible to resist.
There is no mirror to state the condition of mind here in this purgatory of sorts, as darkly I trace the wounds of flesh inflicted, part sin and part virtue as drops of rose fragrance unto me cling.
The moon drips silver gliding from the once abundant sky I suppose even she gets tired eternally surrounded by courtier clouds what a brutal irony it is that we get to choose the way we perceive but not feel, my lips as ever blood red from exhaustion.
At the sound of a horn the gates open themselves I lie in wait for amnesty or damnation to claim me as life in its monochrome musing flashes before my eyes. I have loved you as honey knowing not drops lingered elsewhere too, let us now settle the score for angels have reckoned that hour
is nearing its close.