Chime

Like a chime of waking, marks the time I think of you
And though our worlds behold a distance
First an hour, then by two
To me, it never makes a difference
Whether skies are gray, or white, or match your eyes of blue
Or if the moment comes and goes in but an instant

To the chime of each arrival, eyes would rush to meet
Your words, regardless of the hour,
Whether it’s goodbye or greet
My words a vine, and you the bower
Coursing as if fingers on your spine beneath a sheet
As a bouquet of poems offered as a flower

With the chime of evening, when our moons are yet the same
Between the moments of departure
Where new messages remain
As if a kiss, or fragile art, your
Image lingers softly like a dream I can’t explain
For I an arrow, and, my dear, you are an archer

Like the chime of morning, are your lips upon my own
As if a breath of resurrection
Or the feeling like I’m home
Beholden to your fair complexion
In this crowded world where, evermore, you stand alone
My heart a clock that chimes for you with such affection

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Sunflower

I turned a page, and closed a book
I looked
The other way
And took a breath with only half duress
Dismay,
I took
And placed it on a shelf
And hid it half within a crook

I set the record still to hear
A tear
A growing hush
And with an ache for every damn mistake
I’m crushed
And here
I fail to ask myself
“How long until I disappear?”

But you return like echoes cast
A past
I can’t forget
A set of notes that lingers and evokes
Regrets
Amassed
For either what I’ve earned
Or what I’ve simply failed to ask

Yet every time I think I’m done
You’re gone
You’re far away
And I can breathe a sigh of some relief
I stay
I’m drawn
Compelled to thus return
As if a flower to your sun

Indulgence

Indulge my curiosity
But often do I wonder
What became of your professed verbosity

That, to a truth, you’d speak your mind
With confidence and candor
And not be, to stolid tongue, often resigned

Indulge my animosity
But even now I ponder
If you see your very truth’s own paucity

When from a stated, clear intent
You mutely go meander
Do you justify that paradox ascent

As if a generosity
That others choose to squander
Even as you lack in reciprocity

Or do you just ignore the breach
And simply choose to pander
To yourself and say, “I practice what I preach”

While lacking such loquacity
Instead, choosing to maunder
Treating truth of deed as quaint jocosity

While say I, “Could you once reply?”
To you – the staunch demander
Of integrity that you, yourself, belie

Contention

My tenacity is toxic
My infatuation fatal
In my blood are seven poxes
Blackening your brightest fables
With the wit of demon foxes
And a state of mind unstable

My loyalty is lethal
My coercion is consistent
In my blood, the river Lethe spills
Making my concern indifferent
Where the writhing wrath of Crete fills
Every ounce of my existence

My love is not laconic
My attention, atemporal
An obsession grown draconic
In a scope that’s quite amoral
Less a tincture or a tonic
Than a poison on a quarrel

Dusk

We can walk the clouds
And swim the deserts
Straighten out the bends
We can speak our words aloud
Or say we never will again

We can alter where
We choose to travel
And what we depend
We can break or we can bear
The means unraveling our ends

We can say our peace
And hold the reasons
That we both pretend
Have offered a release
We only see when we descend

We can see the soon
That wasn’t done yet
Else we can attend
A world with half a moon
And live where sunset never ends

Grave

By the first chime
The light had nearly died
The weight of the sound now crashing down
It snared the sun

For the first time
I tried to really try
The fate of a vow, some reaching bough
That’s saving none

By the last chime
The lie was clearly mine
So fatally bound, afraid to drowned
Too scared to run

For the last try
I shied from healing eyes
Just waiting around and facing ground
A grave of one

Saturation

We give up our blue skies
And pluck the moon
And blot the sun. New tides
We color with monsoons

We dye them red as lips
Or blushing cheeks
We’ve long erased. We grip
With fingers growing weak

Until they’re winter white.
We salt the sands
And wash them in goodnight
From deeds we never planned

Until we’re painted shades
Of every hue
But those for which we’ve prayed
And those we weren’t due.