365

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E =

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.

It taunts.

It dims.

And for several decades, it disappears with the curve.

And so does the ring.

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A Cursed Blanket

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.

Collected. Misdirected.

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.

And again.

Matter dominates.

 

 

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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

Fainting

‘Cause no one lives there anymore

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Delivered

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.

Haunted, paranoid.

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.

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White Birch Trees

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

I escape

to wait…

I sit

I lay

Rest my eyes

…Elated 

 

 

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Remember When I Moved in You

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.

Anxious.

The sound tickles ears in the most comforting way.

And my God, do the short term portions of memory caress the interior of hope.

Or hopeless.

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.

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