Side note

I don’t mean to be, I just seem to be
eyes that look over misty sleets
ears that listen in shady tones
picking up the scents of creeping,
my feet have moved over broken bone
and found their way in feeling
touching all that comes my way
splintered teeth and creeks in fleeing,
cold airs upon my twisted neck
all bound in wintry branches
covering my naked body hence
tender kisses and violent lashes,
so sleep to snuggle bound me soul
wrapped in the leaves of falling
I weep in cradles all spilling over
swollen limbs and blood are scrawling.

There’s a buzz

Tender pathling’s along the way

across the rivers that move to sway

its you my friend that songs are given

where hearts are smitten

and the strings all pulled to bay,

to my delightful vision

your hardly a breath away

always there to lend a hand

at the sounds of everyday,

the motors trend in lulling

and your smiles in their play

but these moments ever passing

always open to the stray.

 

So keep on my gentle friend

for the sky is ever calling

where the stars in all their culling

ever wonder and the way

staring into spacey flies

full of minds and all their mulling.

The minds hallway

Not every light is illumination

For some its a darker deep

where things are lurking on every whim

and the quill records every creep,

a mind full of static resonation

always swimming in shadowed air

sights and sounds of unseemly

here the author partakes of the rare,

but nothing is free that is gleamed

and the price too is quite steep

for every word that is written

the shadows in return get their reap.

On broken brow

When lost in recollection

where alpines reach and fly

soaring through the empty

filling clouds of a rivers cry,

where death sweet friend, will carry on

floating through the distant

crowded broken wings

with fractures of resplendent,

some say to here before we go

that nowhere is the wiser

where someone has no wry return

and dead fingers resound, oh miser.

Wills procession

Poetry, poetry everywhere

creeping as it does

grinding little dirty roads

taking flight as fluttery doves,

peaceful painful torments

etching through the brain

each gentle step a falter

the weight upon the strain,

sinking steadfast slowly

till the poison reaches the quill

spilling over onto pages,

as a daunting little pill.

Soul speak

Not everything written is stoked

I assure you to this whimsical truth

some just write to babble

with the rhythm of a broken tooth,

others are so quite eloquent

as to lose meaning of it all

with whirls of denotation

as a giant coming to fall,

but few very few will write

something of a fluid tongue

not seeking themselves to be heard

but graceful to the ears of some,

their words adrift an open mind

and long out for to be spoke

wavering across a subtle space

landing peacefully where they float.