Offender

Tick, tick, tick. This time, it’s right. Finally right. The quietness of a moment is all I need. My mind clears. The roads are clear. I can move on without my wheels. The tireless rush of blood to my head stops for a moment of oxygen, good enough to subdue my senses and bring me home. I don’t need to be more than I am, no more than my heavy skin and bones. What’s a life worth these days? I owe everyone nothing but the generosity of a night’s closing. The moon ahead guides me to the intersection of revelatory two way lanes and layered synthetic melodies. Let me run headlong into the cave of wonders.

Compost

We are the children of great men,
men who have elevated their people to insurmountable heights,
men who have built a microcosm of comfort and decadence.

Our forefathers have concluded that civilized society can exist when it is removed from its grisly origins,
entire lives can be lived in luxurious underdevelopment,
a second and third thought never needing to be spared.

We spring forth as the denizens of this grand society,
reaping the uncompromising spoils of our day and age,
privilege that has been rooted in blood and suffering and fire.

This fortuitous circle of life continues for you and I,
as those darkened faces remain at the bottom of the barrel,
for they are the inevitable byproduct of the unforgiving lives we lead.

We are stained with their blood,
we have drunk the tainted water for the entirety of our short and misleading existence,
and we will go on never knowing.

But still, what of those others, the ones we have left out to die?
The ones who will be forgotten and overshadowed by more applicable tragedies?
Will someone unearth their suffering from the malnourished ground lest we, their great saviors and executioners, forget them one day?

Frida

You mustn’t misconstrue what I say in this plane,
the tones I take when I’m feeling blue.
It is the way I address my momentary sadness,
it is how I patch up my wounds.
It is a release from the pressures of being human,
of existing in my multidimensional world.
Without this outlet, I would be stricken with a debilitating anger that would grow like a beast in the dark.

This is my canvas of necessity,
where I use only glittering purples, grays and blacks,
as it is the palette my canvas was designed for.
Any other color would ruin the perfect stillness of this velvety texture.

Yet I don’t mention the many other lives I live,
the ones filled with overwhelming emotion,
brimming over with unfettered affection,
nestled in the nook of my inner circle,
who cradle and support my fragile frame.
These are the lives that make up the core of my robust heart,
it is where my people reside.
They are in the vale beyond the sea,
where the lush plumes of green and gold flicker at sunrise,
their halls gleaming with promise.
They wait for me at journey’s end,
their open arms patient and welcoming,
their eyes alight with acceptance.
Here is where I shine uninterrupted,
where I am my truest self.

Pendant

I am here on your darkest days.
I wander the corridors like abandoned dust.
I listen to your quiet sobs of pain,
the notes of sadness you carry into the night.
I remain in the dark folds of these rueful corners,
unflinching, unwavering, untold.
For I am here at the end of all things,
when the sun has burst and the debris descends like mist,
when they have left their decadent palaces for higher ground,
when you have fallen to the earth in bitter defeat,
when there is nothing left to salvage.
Here I remain in my infinite patience.
I await your arrival in meager anticipation.
My sentiment is old and weary with grief.
My ancient bones grow restless,
for I have reached my final zenith.

Forlorn

If I could pluck the fireflies from the mist and toss them into the purple sky, I would.
Who would contest such a poetic notion?
I wander across the bay like a mourning apparition,
the dewey grass succumbing to my bare soles.
I hear voices carried in the wind,
ballads of longing and of loneliness,
swirling overhead before dropping gracefully into my lap.
I mark the end of their winded journey as I pour their souls into my painted ewers,
having the final pleasure of hearing such wondrous sounds.
These are the most beautiful of them all, I ponder dreamily.
The last set of voices tend to be the loveliest,
for they have been relinquished from prying hands,
and become free of their heartbroken conscience.
Such is the purpose I fulfill in this strange place,
releasing these crestfallen spirits into the sky as they join the fireflies.