I can't decide
what I am anymore
Happy? Sad?
Drifting
in the middle
My nose is above the surface
while my mouth keeps swallowing the waves
So that I'm almost drowning
Almost breathing.

Nightmare creatures don't just live inside our dreams, where they like to feed upon our silent screams.
Nightmare creatures don't just feed upon our silent screams, they continue to form teams, to float boats on the streams of our tears. They waft gently upon our fears and slake their desire upon the funeral pyre of our fantasies. Then break us down with fallacies that families are ecstasy when only should we feel pity. Nightmare creatures that inhabit our dreams scream ecstasy when we deny family but only in a dream, it seems, our nighmare creatures can only get the best of us when we choose to stage a scene.

listen -
hear no sound, feel
only wind on its way, ghostly
nothing's, but hush to sharp wings
of ocean birds so fraying as they cut
the sky, shuttle to fairways, far aways,
in plaintive cries, i hear what they say,
sailing into the jeweled skylights, but i
am only weight of air, still on ground,
i mumble out, sidle the bone tides
that roll to land, grains of clarity,
i am mist and tear, a world
of hollow, i am that sound -
of ocean in a shell.

I patched the sky in wishes,
White birds flew by.
I prayed to rain in stitches,
Puddles bubbled alive.
I saw a lone flower drinking,
And said I see you shine.
I prayed to the stars blinking,
And offered my blood to moon.

What I want is a traveller.
No, not even a traveller who goes the further distance, for the longest time.
Just one who will be willing to cover miles and spend endless seconds with me.
What I want is a thinker.
No not even the deepest or the wildest of spectrum.
Just one who’ll broaden mine.
What I want is a fighter.
No not even the strongest, toughest or best at battle.
Just one day who won’t allow me to forget the purpose of fighting.
What I want is a believer.
But no, not one of little.
But one who’ll crack perspectives, defy gravity, induce love, dance in storms and build dams in deserts.

My tired heart revives
when Fall arrives
and Summer dies.
Yeah, it comes back to life
at least part-way, sometimes.
               So paint me
               red and gold
       and washed-out green
                  in sunset.

The year seeks sleep
                              I'm piling leaves.
A breeze on evening,
                              Autumn flesh.
October's weary, ragged breaths
time out these restless, rustling footsteps.

               I can smell the solemn things
               the dying year would say to me
               if it could force its sibilant wind
                                into shape--
--if it could speak in consonance
to my own alliterative silence
and I could keep beats
               as stresses released:
"Where were we          when water froze
for the first time          in the fast waning warm?"

I seek out the sanguine;
                              I've been too combustible.
                              But I'm finally comfortable
with speaking dead language
with tongue all languid.
                               Let languish
cloying heat and raise bumps
               on the skin of my arm
                       like you did
                   when I was four,
playing alone in the rain in the Langleys' yard.

Held up under heavy arms,
buoyed by cool Autumn breath,
I found a way to quiet alarms in my
                              chest
           when I was 27...

Nothing's ever real red gold
except for in the Fall.
So guild me slow and let me go
               if all you've got
               are Summer arms.