Sober Womb's

Oh how I hoarded freedoms spell, shall I tell you about it?
I was like a starved canon firing off empty, eating depletion
but why did this Master prevail me?
Woe to those cloning mannequins from intoxicated wombs.
If only the cocoon had a willful widow of unfamiliar wings,
to think of what treasures it might have known had it known.
Where's the foreshadows to summon my clarity?
This threshold of ephiphany must pursue wings they'd never known
for how else can sober womb's gather what's torn.

My Arduous Journey

My arduous journey forgoes to quiet nights,
as I’ve been invited to float blissfully
watching the moon show his face in lucid water.
There, I’ve wailed a sorrows tale
looking for natures handouts to
resign the waltz that I had betrothed.
And yet how can I recant the atlas that brought me here.
For wasn’t the dance the compass that sketched my invitation?
The quiet does not muzzle inspiration
nor does it comfort a compromise.
The night air is crisp and as the breeze blows a euphoric gesture,
I'm indebted to the surreal.
The grandiose pilgrimage
has settled all regrets and
lays floating where the crescent moon has smiled.

This Chair

I’m sloughed in this old incessant chair
rocking to what I covet,
the dust designs my passage.
Dear chair, "If I pardon the footloose
will you sway a new me?"
Toe’s gripping carpet
amusing my bitterness,
the protégé of envy and jealously
has shackled my feet.
Legs crippled from fumbling,
fingers clawing armrests
I cleave to my trepidation,
unaware, that the majestic auctioneer has come.
I hear the steward of dreams
bidding away my withholdings, singing
farewell to despair, farewell to despair.
Crying, I grope the window pane.
Rising to his medley.
The cushions have changed form.

Hope

The snow whitens my eyelashes like
a cool border around a memoir.
Eyes closed,
my outer shell takes it all in speaking,
I have forgiven you for being less than I wanted.
My muse celebrates a winters breeze
sedating the old haunting abysmal of,
my
I
remember you.
The motionless landscape then turns the air,
"Where will you go now?"

My path is marked by hope,
heavily plowed by rain
I will walk where the snow falls.

Insanity

Vandals of nakedness,
compose this battle of
passions drifting to fear enlightening
what's abandoned.
Savoring the banging monotones,
I sang for acceptance.
If I bare me, a battle
that's already preoccupied,
whom will invade my mind
and sort through this madness then?
Get on board mutiny!
Armed with weary, I will expose my stolen voice.
Who will hear me now?

Streams of Light

Some shadows may tarry me
but my longing aspires a rivers strength by moonlight.
The good one shall abide
and the forest will endure timber loss.
I, a lone warrior goes to the roots,
that of which has held me sturdy from
the hot headed sun.
Branches are few but is this not always so?
Pity the one who abandons the streams of light there
the eclipse may ask, “Darling avantgarde, tell me what hour this is?“
And who should answer but
the fools cry
whom slept at sunset.

The air is not still

I feel cold, too many words coming in,
a mind that knows not thyself.
Sold templates glutton with breath
many, weighing as much as one.
How does one stone folly a pyramid when
many took years to build?
I plead to sand domes, "Soothe my mortar and
fiercely blow the crumbling stones belonging to one."
One on top of the other, paying homage to the seal
whispering, "What did I build?"
They know no difference
but I can feel the debris.
The air is not still.