Wisp...

Cranking out and away

Subtlety sojourns no more

Dubious nights

Expectation Less

Stateless in their jellied freeze

Unnatural, this wisp of hope

The burden lies between us,

As reflected in the eyes of another.

I’ve no use for damage

Resignation

Scurrilous times

Unnecessary

Revoked, revered, rectified.

I’m taking charge

Sanctified by the drumming

Of that unbeaten path

Trackless,

Wrapper-less

Unspoiled.

Demeaned,

The opposite direction

Swagger back

In company of self

Tectonics gain pride

Building within

For a Lifetime.

...when least expected...

You see, I prefer the quiet. The heart that relies solely on the sweet, sweet mind attached to it. The kindness born from day one, looking for more love than hate, and hating that love roamed  aloof.

But that hate grew no roots. Instead giving birth to understanding. Knowledge is the impervious skill that kept the hate from rooting. Knowledge grown from constant self-discovery. The low self-worth shed into permeable soil, catching beauty when least expected and leaving room for blooms to take flight, in light of understanding.

Philosophy must also find time to not make sense. In the moments when broken edges come together, the smoothing out of rough hewn corners must be earned. Gratitude lifts the wings of strength. Lifted to fly high into clean air and boundless freedom. Set adrift in a life without tethering to all the superficial charms that the shallow will offer. Life too,  needs the lament of all we cannot control or sometimes fix, to deepen the divide between appreciation and regret.

Fuck the past and its impermeable dedication to memory. Deflate the echoing moments that belong lost to the time they were planted.

The now is here.

Fortified.

Ready.

Probiotic

Tart cherries

Intending to swelter the portal

Invading the tongue

Taking over.

Picked when, to guarantee this trigger?

Mother Nature is direct.

'Slip out...'

“...you been dawning on me…”

This line has my heart stretching backwards,

Irking for the blood of another to pump near my veins.

Will that time come, with a porch set against a structure-less horizon?

A hand to hold, bigger than mine

And a husky hum, inaudible to all but me.

This hopeless romantic routine is fuckin garbage.

Set to prick the pursed lips with cold wind and the warmth of none.

How fashionably late-

The cynical cunt peeks her 2 cents in,

Setting the garbage on fire

With broken teeth and doubtful intent

Pretending to mean what she says,

And to say what she wants.

These snide remarks, owned

She’s broken too. And rusted, busted, dusted.

Waiting for that ‘slip’ to slip out and billow up

To follow the path of the last ten thousand sunsets

Where lovers’ dreams were made wet

Wet by the spray of what might have been

Swept away in the last flash of sun.

Gist

Billowing sails embolden themselves
Taking care to not snag on a hindrance
Sometimes, getting used to the gust is vital.
Recognizing the slow moving giant has raised a head
And not merely an eyebrow.
That, a profound detail, in and of itself.
Too much fluff around the point.
Sometimes the point needs sharpening in the silence.
I sense the radiant murmurs of who I  have always been-
Returning to me.
Sideswiping the chaos that kept resilience out to pasture.

Fuck that 'dwelling too far out'
Nonsense but perhaps necessary.
The slack that I have needed has been residing in these wrists all along.
Recognize, deploy... Grasp.
I need but return to the gist of my guns,
To fire off the cannon that matters most.

Providence claims this victory.
And on I move for the win.

STFU

Drowsy. Swoon. Smoky demeanor
Moving with all the grace of a snake.
Thick. Swollen. With interest.
Populating vacancies - caught off guard.
Whisking heavy, deliberate, wide.
Stroking that cold cocoon.
Concocting satisfaction
The ripe apple reaching fruition
Sunken teeth.
Libido's pulse burps softly at first.
Portioning attention as though it could.
Powerless.
As the baseline in my britches...
...will not
.................shut the fuck up.

Commute

October
Undress me
Allow the fog of fall
To suckle away these nipples
That loathe the lonely night.

My fading throat is thirsty still
For a bite of meaning.

Tired of the touch
From hands that know me too well.

Predilection. Investigation. Reveal.

Plucking more strength from the fucking... 
The fucking off,
of love's labor's lost.