apples are crimson
like the faces of children
who exit their births
breathing as fire, raptured by still tears.
she was a silence of horror
the venom of encroachment
a tunnel of thought
I am only left to this fanatical
centuries of madness, tearing at the curtains.
like Shakespeare’s army ants
actors in drag, frightened wraiths
isolated dogs in chambers
a maiden’s eye
with perceptions of dreams
in an old bucket
i wash my hands
I Will Not Know
I wish I was beautiful
like the sea,
heaving with grandeur.
Approached by a swift ray
my senses become forsaken.
avid for God and chaos,
when will choices rob you
of your dignity?
When will the solitude of darkness
Winter will accompany the wind
No purple homage for the season.
Our moon is this onion
staring down a black lagoon…
no, I will not know.
The Southern Wall
“The world, no doubt, is in favor of the forcing apparatus or of the southern wall.”
- Anthony Trollope, The Small House at Allington
Clinging to horizons of doubt,
ego erases my heart in one gesture
and vines will risk the climb.
Like the sun a man beams, broad shouldered,
with crimson eyes—
seeing noon and deeper fruits grown slight.
A man can be shadow and slave,
or he may be sage and the light
illuminating the joys felt by the will.
Power thrusts its sword into my ribcage,
digs fertility from my torso,
and tosses it to the empty air where dust conspires
to make a man full and sweet.
The grapes of wrath are plucked from vain ground—
the weak are merrier and more sound.
Who grows higher, deft in courage?
Are the twilight emblems shown to be timeless?
My ancient home is the southern wall.
I am one of those who dare not speak.
I am one of those who questions and imagines
the sweetness of love without tasting.
Come closer to my lips as I compose poetry
for your smiles.
I have dreamt the thousand glories of your heart.
Our hands, held together by soft sighs, desire to stay.
The emblems of my interior flee as captives of the mind.
You become sweeter by far when I am near you.