Ars Poetica 3
a poem is when
I send you a message
that is different than
the one you receive
yet still the one that was intended.
A song of sorts
I wrote for you
A song of sorts
You heard untrue
And drained the ink
We built our forts
But now they sink
And here we stand
Feet in the sand
Our silent stares
Have never met
I kill your glares
Before they come
And I would bet
You know the sum
At first we flew
But now we’re through
We’ll have a chance
For one last swing
One backward glance
You know the deal
Two plastic rings
Two hearts of steel
One night of sun
And then we’re done
Silhouette of a Draining Heart
I
Colors pour from my eyes
The sky’s silent, empty tears
Cannot wash away the stains I’ve made
The darkening rainbow of blood splashed across the sky
Runs down the fading brick walls
Pools in the cracked dog dish
Dries into the crimson velvet of your room
A solitary plume is left floating in the ice-cold water
Resting motionless in the gushing rapids
Soak in the flowing colors
Return them to my fingertips
I need them
I
need
them
~
Colors pour into your eyes
Bleeding through the canvas
Filling the rifts of your mind
Oil.
Your blood flows like oil.
Black sludge in your veins.
Is it colorless
Or all colors melded together?
The whites of your eyes are gone
Flown to the sun to burn away all trace
The light is fading
The rainbow is dripping away
Filling in the hollowed night
The colors bleed
Colors always bleed
II
The colors of our eyes mix
Running down our faces
Our waltz splashes through the dense black of night
Your hand melts in mine
Go back to the surface, rip through the mud
Before the wrinkled satin dress tears
Into the sun’s fiery grasp we dance
Violet
~
Color
Color is nothing
Dark
Color is everything
The dark shatters
Violet
Violet shines through
The mirror shatters
Shards of violet
Pulsing in violet
Color is violet
Each pump of my heart resounds
A deafening violet
Vi-o-let
Violet is everything
~
The final chilled drop falls
Our dance sinks into the earth
Our eyes have faded away
A violet rainbow fills the sky
Scraping against the hallowed night
The colors bleed away
Colors always bleed away
Mismatched Socs: The Walls are White
a poetic mix of several streams of consciousness
The Walls are White
They're Stained by the Light
It comes dripping down from the ceiling above,
My pooling eyes are soaking it all in
my feet are fading
sinking in the linoleum sea
the currents are running away with me
the frothy sea brine would feel quite fine
if I wasn't so sharp
if it wasn't so dark
if it wasn't so hard to hold onto the line
with the waves crashing hard and the salt in your throat
with submerged coral slashing the pages you wrote
you're screaming and thrashing but you've lost all hope
Be way of tables:
Marked and designed to suit your crime
They'll swallow you whole and leave nothing behind
Your skin starts to rip and your bones start to grind
They eat you alive, but I really don't mind.
It's the silent weathervane that bothers me.
There's no wind here.
The Walls are White,
and the windows are weathervanes.
Here, the mirrors learn from your hair.
Does it run down your face? do you drink it? It tastes like soup
The final moments of a blood-stained memory
Link arms with the innocence of childhood
Everything is lost now.
Lost, lost, lost
in the white of the White Walls
Can you remember the White Walls too?
Where they came from?
The depths of hell hold the key to your cell.
We all know hell has White Walls
A pretty face with warts on the heart
It knows how to live and play out its part
And never stops singing, ringing, stinging,
Bats screeching and preaching,
The gentle sloth learns HTML programming
And becomes a ferocious tiger
With pearly white fangs
And pearly White Walls.
The tree's final moments:
A seed planted in the blood-stained ground
Muddy blood,
Bloody mud,
A blackthorned castle grows form the Earth.
His curved blade flashes.
The silver edge shimmers like mist.
A cloud of oil;
Oil as black as the blackest night
and the darkest wish.
The Tree's final moments,
my final memories,
bloody ones.
Death
has White Walls, to.
Can you finally see?
The White Walls are closing in
crushing the light
I
can still breathe
but
the air
escapes
slipping through the cracks
I am
trapped
here with the White Walls
and the most free
I could wish to be
swimming outside
in the flowers and filth
the snow
and the shards of glass
a hay in a needlestack
holding hands
with the clock on the wall.
The Walls are White.
The Walls are.