an exhale of awe into the descending night
in fading light and hue
in losing sight of you
in your presence fading from view
an inhale of exhaustive devastating sight
in hosting a vacant guest
in the counting of one less
in farewells to slumber rest
an exhale of falling downy frozen white
in mid-winter ponder
in mindless mental wander
in destinations off yonder
an inhale of a numbing, lamenting plight
in remorse of the unsaid
in paths where we were led
in grasping through life for the dead
the disturbed soil isn't for you
that's for seeds to fall into
for rain to be cradled by
and for sun to crack into plates
you aren't below its surface
that's for worms to tunnel through
for roots to expand into
and for toads to slumber in
that box isn't your bed
boxes are for cargo or music
or miseries of this earthly existence
and no matter how deep the earth holds you
let me hold you deeper
you can breathe through my lungs
and count the days from the beats of my heart
you can clothe yourself in my skin
stare down your fate through my eyes
and when you finally tire
you can lay my body down
to that ground you don't belong to
as the tarnished copper
ripples in the flowing gown
as lights line the pool
at the foot of the obelisk
as they are counted four hundred
for every thousand death
from this modern pestilence
as life folds itself in mundane
existence and is tucked in
by time's extraordinary hands
as the sun sets on devastating
disrespect and disruption
for dawn to rise on greater hope
as the world seems to be turning
a page in history with the next day
we are all dancing on a sword
we have always been dancing on a sword
and we will always be dancing on a sword
my should've is a vine
slithering through my gut
when I heard you had
spoken your last words
your feet were so pale and cold
when you took those first steps
into the dark
I want to grab your hand still
when I could've when we were still
so stupid, so misshapen, so weak
and so ready to bite into it all
I should've when we were alone
and stolen away to lay out
in front of the starry abyss
on our backs on the trampoline
in the shadow of the house at night
where we could've watched the lights
dance through the seasons
and where we could've poured out
all our troubles into those starry depths
as our heads laid ear to ear
listening so gently
as the sandhills exhaled in the distance
I should've brought you out into those hills
and held your arms while you let your rage
explode from your mouth
perhaps your tears could've formed a sea
and I would've swam its waves with you
I could've been a reason for you to stay
hoping that I would've been enough
to keep your pale cold feet from taking those
steps into the dark
I should've grabbed your hand back then
when, when I could've
it's always Christmastime on the streets
the flashing red and green
on cold wet pavement
await the arrival of passing sleighs
full of presents going somewhere else
for someone else
yet spirits are merry
in the bottom of bottles
or rolled dollar bills
and magic's in the air
between puffs of smoke
and little crushed pills
but the needles don't sew
or mend worn out coats
flames flicker in makeshift hearths
to warm frozen hands
the warm glow keeping
the longest night at bay
until slumber calls
and the dreamer is tucked in
fresh fallen snow
a blanket to hush the harsh words
of the bitter northern wind
I've left them behind
whether I've forgotten them
or left them on purpose
is for you to decide
but they're there
buried deep inside of you
not inside any soiled grave
or carved stone tomb
I gifted them to you
before you were born
whether they're a burdened curse
or blessed legacy
is for you to decide
but they're there
dancing deep inside
they can build ladders
on which you can climb
to other times beyond plagues
they can be planted and grow forests
in which you can lose yourself in
away from disillusionment and tyrants
they can be used to beat drums
to revive the heartbeat inside this world
that is fading from all of our ears
they can build bridges that were always there
but just were hidden in a fog of difference
they can be struck and ignite
and burn so very hot within
until they engulf not only you but it all
they can do most anything
as they came from everyone that came before
but how you will use my bones
is for you to decide
those who linger from the skies
angels of old who
bathe in both truth and lies
their eyes that freeze the soul
that steal the air and sound
in midnight lights
and sights words fumble with
their chariots are the same
that forgotten gods crashed
into the earth
the same that gave birth
to heavenly ascensions
and countless faces never found
after being printed on milk cartons
the stolen lives and celestial bribes
that crowns have banked
to say who exactly gets into heaven
heaven, they may name it
yet fires burn there in dark skies
these fires that know not no
will accept only their bidding
these wingless gods who fly
surely they know what's best
let time be the blade to their throats
let that be the test
cruelty grins
behind a mask of status
it gathers it children
unto itself
pacifying them with ideas
of independence and wealth
it leads them with a hollow carrot
pulled from its own barren garden
letting them play underneath
the suspended root
while holding a rusty cage
behind its back
a cage where it stores
the hearts of promise, generosity, and decency
from behind its crimson robes
stained with the bleeding poor it treads upon
it hides a withering frame
of which is sustained by the attention
of the hordes entertained by
that hollow golden carrot
cruelty can only feed upon such recognition
it can only hide behind the glamor of wealth
and the idea that one can be completely free
from the rest in this life
without this fuel it would be exposed
stripped of its crimson clothing
and shown as the wretched coward
that it is
two elders sat playing chess
they knew in order for one to win
one of their kings would have to die
the goal in playing power
the role to play in order to devour
only one king will remain
only one king will have the say
and in this victory of the game
the board is left in a gory mess
with swords ran through rooks
decapitated knights and pawns
and even bishops and queens
lacquering the wood with blood
and what would be left of the court
for the newly ruling king
would he have dismembered hands
serve him his chalice of wine
would drained torsos bow at his whim
and bring him tidings from his allies
what allies would come to him with open hands
and not bearing daggers behind their backs
for it all was a filthy battle fought
by the strategizing hands of the elders
who whispered dark and deadly words
into the ears of their pieces
and to all those who would eat up their lies
these foreign elders playing their game
on a land not of their own footsteps
but a land at least one of them would
gladly have a remaining king rule
alas not even a village-sized blanket
could sop up all the victor's drool
the elder of late October
wears robes of silver thistle leaves
with a serpentine gourd vine
tied round his bony waist
he's crowned with bare branches
that shade his long locks
of crimson amaranthine hair
his skin is course and crackled bark
of which lichens are akin to
his dark vacant eyes are chasms
one can fall into if not careful
while his grin is as sharp
as the first frosts in the
presence of the dawn
he carries with him all the fruits
that have fallen, forgotten and not foraged
these are his orphaned children
he comes to collect each year
to carry them safely into the long night of the year
but parents be wary to not leave
your own children under the arms
of a tree with showering leaves
or else along with the discarded fruit
they too will be carried off
by the elder of late October
