Title

You're face is all I see.
Waking up in warm arms, I can smell you on my skin.

Foreign and familiar; not mine, oh yes...it's yours.
So is this, this hot, damp mess of organ and tissue.
Taking on a shape dissimilar to what is common.
It melts and spurts and empties it's crimson secret.
it's yours.

"That's just my battle scars" shouting, cheeks aglow.
But silent and honest accept
it's yours
it's true
and keep it you will,
the scars, already, distill.

Untitled.

twitch poke prod
sharp metallic black, round.
swift flash bright light
swirling and swaying
every muscle screams in torment
the veins tumultuous
blood cold, ice and cold
then hot in a moment,
singing from in to out.

Untitled.

Tiny sounds called notes.
Patterned properly create a key.
The lock is stiff and brassy and rust,
cock your head to the tilt, and breathe.

Unlock a world, a realm a space,
white, light, bluster and float.
blue air, cold with comfort,
light it up, let it glow.

To dream is to be unconscious,
knowing, willing, still.
But music gives you no control,
just spins and throws and thrills.

Powder and green ribbon,
the story is not yours.
unknowing, just floating.
unwelcome and what for.

Dance it will, for you, perform.
presence, essence, thrown.
till quickly it bottles and bloats,
and tumbles down forlorn.

silence reaps and creeps to play
sharp, black and shine
darkness where there once was ray.

Feeling:

Feeling: Just got a new book. BACK FLIPS IN THE AIR.