No sharp edges

There are no sharp edges

In this thing I feel

Just this blunt end of pain

I cannot cure for myself,

No shards of glass

The cuts of which

I can stitch up

To avoid the scars,

Just this dull ache

Ever erect, always poking

Me at times I least expect

Dragging me out

Of dreams of drowning

Shaking me out

Of my daytime haze

Expanding in my mind

Like an over inflated balloon

Waiting to pop,

With me, too much a coward

to do anything about it.

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The clock face of love

How many seconds pass between the clicks,

Between the sweeping arms and fading hills,

The worried looks that break the speed of sound

Between our eyes,

Again, the sweep begins,

Telling its concurrent lie, without change

With the slightest bend, out of place

A resonate nightmare

Bleeding our faces white.

We are helpless souls

Drifting sadly in the circles of a dream

Blinking on and off beneath

The flurried sparkle of a magic wand,

Blinking often,

More off than on.

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Rose bush

Today, you wear silence

An angry grown sewn with threads of frost

Inspired by the reverberant winter breath

Rushing through lifeless limbs,

Frost that seals you in a winter dress

Sleeves as clear as glass,

Aching for a single thought of spring

With me the sole subscriber to some future

Only hinted at in the mists,

Your buds still tight under the kiss of wind,

Waiting for the warmth of me

To inspire you to grow

To breath hard over you,

To bring back your painted glories,

To become a sweltering homage

Only high summer can bring

To let the my tongue play over you

My fingers run through your wilted leaves

To let me become your sunlight

To warm you, and melt your

Still frozen heart,

Me aching to touch

The pedals of your inner self

With the tip of my shivering tongue.

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Four Star Diner

I watch her long fingers

Grip the knife

And slowly spread butter

Across the surface of the bread,

The clatter of silverware,

The chatter of voices,

This cold Sunday in March,

Unheard except for hers,

Her hands so steady

While mind still shake,

Unnerved by her stare,

her meaning lost

in a fog like haze

sealing me into

this lonely harbor

from which I have

no will to sail,

too weak to resist her,

no matter where she

says I should go,

an Avalon and me King Arthur

with a self-inflicted wound,

bleeding into my eggs

as the knife moves

in and out,

leaving its guilty residue

showing in her eyes,

spreading over both of us

until too thin to scrape,

shredding me

layer by layer

with each cruel stroke.

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