Another Life
I never thought we’d have the chance.
That spark struck in dire times
when darker luck detained our love,
and we joked perhaps “in another life”,
but did not know what we had sowed
until we woke in it together;
another life. This time, forever.
Flares
I looked over at the well,
leapt to my feet,
grabbed a bucket, ran for it,
dashed through puddles already forming
(unattended, and overflowing),
caught the water
as it throbbed, spilled,
rose in the center,
fell at the edges.
Held my bucket,
looked about for anywhere to empty it,
found only more water,
so began to drink.
Climbed into the well,
swallowed each bucket with a shallow apology,
sank lower,
deeper, darker, bleaker,
each night another bucket filled,
each night another wet brick recovered
at the cost of a soggy soul,
of drowned words and a sore jaw.
Laid down and done against the base,
reached to my waist,
pulled out a flare,
and fired it.
My literal last hope,
there, manifested,
and about as short-lived;
except, it wasn’t a flare,
and I didn’t sit there wondering if your ship would pass
today, tomorrow, or next week.
Instead, it was the final arrow in my quiver;
it’s feathered flight forged with forever’s fingers,
designed to travel any distance,
to cross any period of silence,
to strike, and then return to me
before your blood on its tip had time to dry.
--
But what of poetry?
I drank and sank with every sip;
a bucket filled, a brick revealed.
I drained and claimed back every drop
too long forsaken, but never forgot.
These prayers like flares are final hopes,
short-lived and shot in skies for ships.
I raised and aimed instead a bow;
an arrow forged in a missed tomorrow.
It flew and drew fresh blood from you,
then returned your redness to my reach.
With tacky fingers, I began to climb,
fighting to surface before they dried.
The Universe
Struggling to even find the words
is a failure to observe.
There should never feel enough of time,
but death is not the curse…
it’s forgetting there’s a duty
to go document your world.
That’s all your maker wants of you;
to write the universe.
Untouched
As for me, I’m left untouched;
anticipation come undone,
and dead as flags without their wind -
my fingers melt into the sun.
I’d cry but cannot bear the thought
that tears would be the first to know
and set upon my skin like sharks
who hunt the salt for blood in tow.
I suppose that’s why I have returned,
to lean my love upon a crutch;
no matter for why the lonely shore,
I shall not leave untouched.
The Traveler
To cross the ocean
is to ride atop life itself.
To cross the universe
is to empty yourself of life;
only you remain.
the future
a quiet moment, in our home
playing my songs for her on piano
discussing our future
I decided to play a new one
she cried at the crescendo
told me she loved it
but when I turned, ready to kneel,
she was already gone
apparently unaware of the stark proposal
from the other room she began remarking on some unremarkable thing
sheepishly, I pursued her
box in hand
"You forgot the best part", I said
and the rest is future
Vow
I find me recognizable.
Though far-flung from where I hung
and sung for empty bars,
swung swift through lanes and cars,
now sat atop the highest floor
surveying all that came before;
encapsulated by a skin
that bears the scars of seasons past -
at last! At last! A chance to pass
and elevate my heart above,
re-educate my soul to love
in ways of yesterday’s amazement;
every day unfazed to face it.
Live the life that we created,
and fight like hell to never break it.
Release
Let’s get lost somewhere in town,
and scuttle down these cobbled streets
to pubs discreet from public eyes,
and magnetize to cosy nooks,
among the books and wooden beams,
where streams of consciousness combine
like vines entwine and climb the spires,
like fires desire and feast on flames;
this hot exchange shall only cease
when bodies crease and breaths release.
But maybe it’s the cure
It all begins with an idea.
I drink like I’m trying to kill something inside me,
chipping away at it day by day,
unhooking its claws from my soft, internal flesh,
and occasionally bludgeoning its viral stranglehold
with a night of seppukurian abandon;
choosing for myself the most delectable,
grandiose of weapons
with which to cut me core to core.
I wish only to feel better,
to be free of that incessant writhing;
thick chains and dark anchors,
not weighing me down,
but suffocating me in place.
I hear the way that others say
they could quit at any time,
and I believe them; it’s easy leaving,
but they cannot see the fight I’m in;
I cannot let up
or it will win.
