drobrienobrien on Wishing Wells Weren’t Me… joshalexanderphotogr… on Wishing Wells Weren’t Me… A on 17 Shots of Life David Keller on We all have a story cain on Been a While
And you will know the bell by how loudly it sounds.
He sketches in the dirt to repave memories from a broken past.
But the only page serves as a reminder of porcelain pillars, handcuffed with bruises.
A yellow haze brands tint in his eyes.
The grey rolls in.
Hands that shake the Earth grab hold of a soul – flashing the heart with leprosy.
The apathy burns.
And for several decades, it disappears with the curve.
And so does the ring.
Canopies stack stones on organs and cast cacti to spear my eyes – so alluring.
As mirage-colored daydreams are the foreshadow of material voids, the concrete breaks.
Dimples from the burning sun crater the moments we exchange.
And as we install joints of recalled seeds, we expose growth in patterns.
Twisting. Ringing. And belted.
For the white glass seeps between slinking toes; and cascades to the pace of an hour.
Decibels solely mark the trade.
The prologue rubs grains in my eye
Scuffs the page and melts the sky
Widows tick tock at my door
But no one lives there anymore
Soundscapes impair vision again
Pry their way open like a friend
The flies on the wall are dead
So, so are the stories
But the walls stuck around to listen
…and took pictures along the way
Developed and maintained
And if negatives were negative-
This mirror’d be painted black
Shutting windows like a door
‘Cause no one lives there anymore
I’ve lurked through pillowed clouds and splintered grass before.
Honed in on conceptual visions of painted luxuries.
Been involved in measurements of jeweled behaviors.
They led me to an intersection of lies.
A poison of misconception swimming in complacency.
Clocks became friends of mine.
As did microchips dotted with paths toward ones and zeroes.
Pavement poured over my dreams.
Guided my misdirection toward paper airplanes and butterflies.
I settled in a landscape of panoramic letters.
Each one decorated with integrated laughter coloring pebbles of delicacy.
Through this, I became one.
Now, a fingerprinted reflection on a past reality brands a noose around the constant.
Stale variables prance on dotted lines and figure skate near history.
My God, how those hands pulled through.
I’ve found moths in shadows of flames…near fire, pressing toward me
Lanterns exposed to covered paths
And in the dead of night…the warmth captivated me
Separated my cold bones from blankets of snow
Moving hope through hallways, searching for closed doors
Copper pulled my skin to a force-fed transition
Across the lava fibers between my toes
To a thick sheet of glass standing patiently
Rest my eyes
My glasses have merely served as mirrored reflections against a technological canvas.
Hands met mine upon awakening on an opposing side of the ocean.
While we move we dismiss the stationary souls that immobilize one another.
I’ve heard it before…and he says it again. Muttered from lips that transcribe a heart.
Been suffocated and crushed beyond waves – sleeping through sickness.
The sound tickles ears in the most comforting way.
And my God, do the short term portions of memory caress the interior of hope.
For these motions spin round.
And do not meet the destination.
Until stepping through an uncomfortable entrance.
A doorway more inviting than the one in front of you.
They meet in their dreams to help each other sleep.
Then a hand to the cheek
a left eye closed
and lips that kiss to the sound of rest.
The most beautiful rendez-vous.
Pour mon cherie.