everything
lingers on the lips and hugs us in tight
everything
rocks us sweetly to sleep
in poorly-made blankets of dissonance
everything else
runs in circles
and justifies the echoes that never dare to bleed
nothing
asks us to stray too far from the bed we’ve made
or from the softness of fear that surrounds us
so tell me a little lie
of a newly painted world
where the night’s dream
takes away everything this day lacks
and takes a hold of my hand
until I can find a way to open my eyes again
look outside the web you’ve spun
and you’ll see
you’re just a gnat
caught among the others.
flailing dots of life
shimmering spines
tendril tended
by some unknown wonder
weaving us back in
her claws dig into the earth
scraping past wriggling lifeforms as they dive deeper into a buried haven
hoping to escape her notice, her ever-piercing gaze
but her eyes lurch forward, fixed
stable and guiding the smooth-muscled movements of the inky limbs beneath
drawing ever closer to her prey
waiting to sink
waiting to taste blood
and for what?
from time to time
then slips into now
and the sheen of innocence returns
to a world that is bright
where my days are untethered
and the windows are wiped clean
and i see
just for a moment
with the wisdom of childish eyes
and just for a moment
all i do is breathe
are you jealous of your brother wind
who swirls and dances with the fallen leaves
while you travel from porch to porch
methodically organizing death into neat piles?
does it bother you to see that scoundrel
undo all your hard work
in one carefree gust
do you feel powerless
dependent on the laborer who straps you to their side or back
while sister wind flows freely at a whim
do you suffer to watch your master
mindlessly point you in any direction
with no apparent forethought
at times, stripping living plants of their leaves
are you thrilled by the repetition
by the the rounds you make
to the same houses
week after week
do you like my porch
i hope not
please stop coming
a rose never asked to be named
language-locked into a single idea
never enough to explore dynamism
the word was only apt in the moment of its creation
a rose will never tell you of its beauty
or of its plans to bloom
it never explains its thorns
or asks to be nurtured, carried beyond its natural failings
it simply is and does
and if we are listening and seeking
if we see and understand
from a place of no history, no future
we find the moment
of an ever-emerging ‘rose’