Throwing daggers

an ambitious fiend

by the name of Ire

carries around a 

fistful of blindfolds

he loves to use on

so many people who

are standing on the edge

his brother fiend

by the name of Scorn

carries around a

fistful of daggers

he loves to put in

the hands already

blindfolded by Ire

their sister fiend

by the name of Maim

carries around a

mouthful of lies

she loves to whisper

into the ears of those

holding daggers from Scorn

AM rains

morning rains 

in the darkened sunrise

on stilts of spikey spruce

silhouettes in the dim light

the world outside

blurred by slow running

splatter of morning rains

on dirty windshield

and side windows

a pause before the begin

a stall before the labor

a moment to take it all in

and sit with both 

disappointment and gratitude

in the morning rains

 

Let it be written

whatever has been

written on my skin

is an old story

they are words

that have passed

scars that have

outgrown their lessons

wounds that have

long since healed

whatever has been

written on my heart

is the current tale to tell

they are words 

that belong to me

people that I'll

always have a smile for

places that will

always make me tear up for

whatever has been

written on my soul

is vague yet so familiar

they are words

I have yet to understand

doors I have yet

to find the keys for

and moments that will

turn my world upside down

Oh you can

you can play the violin 

of my soul 

gliding your fingertips over 

the inside of my elbow

you can melt the entire

iceberg underneath

with a swoop of your hand

up my leg and then down

to my feet

you can u-turn at anytime

when you pass my way

you can ask me anything

I might surprise you

in what I might say

you can do all these things

and I hope even more

and I promise I will

do some things

you won't be able

to ignore

 

Vacant beats

early morning conversation

with the heart

my what it has to say

at three thirty three

what it will entertain

what fantasies it will weave

into the fabric of the sheets

gladly am I its confidant

in these wee hours

let it bellow before sunrise

the pillow sopping up

the river of tears

the regrets and the fears

and the lament over 

what was lost

or never achieved

in all those previous years

Tempest hag

the gray hand

stretches across the land

it knocks over

the trees and power poles

as an impatient reach

across the chess board

downs a pawn or knight

the tempest hag screams

upon the howling winds

her cackle booms

in the explosive thunder

the dark skies flash

when her electric hair

whips through the clouds

her multitude of arms

wreak havoc on everything

she passes over 

yet the only relief

is that she bores easily

and flies off to the horizon

with her cackle echoing

off in the distance