Carry

Torch in my palm; I trace my minds' maps to an exchange.

Blackness and blankness; my trance now.

Dreams do filter the torch; always…as a tool; warning; sign; symbol…

Smack the source! Shake til' not.

End.

Compensations

To turn your neck; to see the world in a vivacious myth's lens.

To dance; to freeze and make love to the velvet covers.

To fly; to be driven as a nail; grounded on all fours as creatures be; learning innocence lost.

To procreate; to not; to love alone; unbreakable and forever bonded to memories that solely remain.

To stay awake; to drift away any hour; into a land like Nod; where you be until you can freely see.

Strike

Stun with dancing fans eloquent longing.

Give that sting; sear into the seeing flesh via the seeing palm.

Shaken; not stirred.

Leave; darkness protrudes and overtakes a schedule in their soil.

A plot where we were once a seed; belonging to a rose. It was snow white; but it's thorns outgrew it's bloom.

Array

Plumage in eyes that seek food.

Stalked and altered. Thrown down; beauty's bite!

This starburst home where palms do see; sooo envelopes thee.

To lose your soul in these violent delights produces you as ashes true.

Face those faces again? Skin unveils armor which no thing can pierce again.

No beauty; no eye; no touch; no torch; no soul; and above all…no love.

Burn

Ouch! That is not my line…

Grand canyons in flesh marking what evers of what haves are left ooze melancholy.

What spirit does not bury, but carve?

In between worlds we all surpass: exist, for now.

If ever seeming now; light years and imagination creates Van Gogh's and blockbuster sagas that leave belches of laughter emanating from a drooling open mouth.

To wait frozen: unadmired.

To crawl: applause! applause!

To live: respect.

To love: love…

Wind Talker

Blows into eardrum and drums seances I do not understand.

The spirit of the air dancer raps in tongues. Some freckle understands. Some quarter of my iris understands and I perceive it all. Mysteries as fountains of knowledge that I stumble on and across Mohave deserts and Appalachian mountains…alone, so it seems.

Always hitting my feet on rocks and bitching about the fire. But that wind; it will always be there; has always been there. Whispers to me all along the way.  The most patient everlasting flow - that really fucks up my outfit sometimes!

I love it more weaving through my hair.

Water

I get it; you look at something…you think it's dead; dried up; brown; rotten.

All it needs is a chance;

water.

Water come to us in lots of forms; dreams; "the" song; writing; painting; maybe getting your hands really dirty.

The moral is I suppose as day will turn into night is to give it a chance. Sometimes all anything needs is a second chance.

Looking forward to Spring.

Feathers

Weapons bringing height and agility's dance to those that are proud to lightly bestow them.

Power radiates from a gentle, fragile; erotic systematic touch.

Meaning resides; disintegrating your sight to be color, kind and belonging to either the visible or invisible.

I seek mine; call to them to gather and sew back the caught up spider web; once an intricate tapestry; turned catastrophe.

Beat in thundering rhythms against the wind and rise.

Birds of a feather; we do flock together.