Posts
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Buried in Winter
The greatest of lovers are rumored to not dawdle.
In hope of truth my legs begin pacing
down through the forest blanketed in snow;
past thickened ice the earth shows lo and behold:
It takes more than cloth to survive the cold. -
Gambling, spirits, faith, and pioneers
There is this unfathomable desire for touch
after love has passed you by for millennia.
You wager divinity like a schoolyard bet;
hoping you do not cry this time when you
scrape your knees on honest concrete.
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Finding sanctuary in showers
- inspired by Emily Dickinson: who saw holiness in most unexpected of places.
Hot showers are almost baptisms
because you have the painfully mortal choice
to either speak to God or wash your hair. -
Endearingly Yours, Vlad III
I had the privilege of stealing your last breath
so that we may kiss each other for eons to come.
Although the disease nearly manifested your death
I wouldn’t change our gothic story for any ransom. -
17
Seventeen is shamelessly begging for an attempt at childhood
after you have devoted each year since birth to the preparation
of becoming a voice to be heard and ultimately reckoned with. -
I’d love you (if) [it’s] {only} |us|
(if you’re wrong.
Wrong for the right reason.
Wrong to reason in gazing at eyes.
Wrong as eyes see and mouth swallows.
Wrong as swallows fly and explore life.
Wrong while life continues in being.
Loves
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How do you ride a bike?
How do you ride a bike?
How do you make the wheels turn?
How do you make everything fade away?How do you let the moment
Fill you with emotion
That never leaves your heart? -
The dog at the end of my street
There's a dog that sits at the end of my street,
He snarls his teeth when we walk,
He barks with his eyes wide open,
With his eyes full of rage and love.
There's a dog that sits at the end of my street, -
Vincent
Orange, yellow, and red
Swirled like a painter mixing his colors
The brush strokes, light, heavy, loud
A pallet of only the brightest colors
Distracting him from the grip of life -
The Old Dream
You sit
in the corner of my room,
stretched thin across canvas,
and frozen
in your forgotten poise.
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Listening to Wind
It is September, yet
I can still hear the beach.
The sea moves and swells;
it tumbles to the shore,
dusts itself off,
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