lines and dots. and their meaning

to be less electric
would to be but a shadow
of one's self.

so you turn away
and leave, whether
you know it yet
or not, for good.

the opening
of windows and doors.

symbolic exorcism.

an attempt to rid
your disenchantment
lingering on my skin
along with the dirt
beneath my nails.

leaving me

to contemplate those
that became mythic
in proportion
after they were gone.

same song. but different

during tumultuous storms in white
shadows come out to play
swaying better judgement
taking up room
until i am not me
but them.

blinded.
using language as a fist.
i hurt.
you.

long lost battles leave their legacy
concealed behind the reflection
in tarnished mirrors.

an understanding
of symbols and their significance.
the non existence of forgotten things.
only edges become obscured.
then reappear.

trust me when i say my back
will only bend so far.
only so many times
the same circle can be walked.

i will stop.

observe the choreography
of the things that bring us to life.
the point, we are taught,
is invariably about what happens
along the way.

history was not lost on me.
it made me. is mine.
but write my future it will not.

i turn to the teachers.
the orchestra swells
and the heart
remembers itself.

conviction,
as naive as it may be,
rages. and you, my friend, will witness
the burial of the shadows..

the clarity of mo(u)rning

yellow flowers shrivel in their vase.
a wild fluctuation of spirit.
small parts die
in the process.

in the struggle
to unbraid knots
some are tied tighter.

days
like pockets stretch.

the surface is broken.

falling. every day

moments of metamorphic light splinter
on the doorstep. the threshold. my alter.
the boundary dividing inner and outer.
places i move closer to myself somehow.

my eyes shift through shades of green.
tiny mirrors. but there is no name i know
for the exact colour of the sky today.
it changes with and is the light.
a whole spectrum of possibilities.

science says
there can be no light without space.

..so we grow.

february. minor conversations

during minor conversations with the evening
it's damp vapours permeate skin.

this is where i live.

by morning a marching band
play their drums and whistles
through the window held tight
with poems.

and im in love with the light.
it's the same old story.

deciding what's next and what's to come
of almost ghosts and wishbones
that dwell near the sound
of my feet moving across the ground.

the circles i draw there.

and the itch between my fingers.
fingers wish sometimes
they were feathers.

i miss the birds.

nostalgic for their songs
and the places they lead me.
towards everywhere that is home.

and i with the days am growing

backwards glances recall miscellaneous remains
of old lives and skins littering all (y)our varying landscapes.

fragments of memory stick to skin until they cant be peeled apart.

because it's all one.

and with all things considered im just getting started.

the hunger returns with the wind blowing her unrest.
sending the dust of a million stars flying.

like the deep exhalation of a long held breath.
the grip loosens unable to hold it's fist of sand.

the red things below shine.

and it's a simultaneous flow of movement.
passing through the days the world moves in me.