"El petricor danza en silencio—
tu sueño enciende el ocaso.
¿O es tu pelo en mi almohada?"

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‘Intim­ate Geography’
Petricor dances in silence—
your dream ignites the dusk.
Or is it your hair on my pillow?

Golly, fellas!
Gee, ladies!
These folks.
Am I right, person(s)?

They say it's no fair!

Hey, if you didn't already know it-
I'm hoping you get the best.
Usually, that's by lesson.
And, wouldn't you know it,
You're quite the students!
I just noticed you were struggling learning.
So, I reduced it down to the basics!
You've just got to get to studying.
Of course, not that it's always obvious,
What field even peaks your interest?

Perhaps it's walking.
Perhaps it's gawking.
Perhaps it's trying.

But to what do they compare?

Perhaps it's sensation.
Perhaps it's thinking.

But who's to say
What that even corresponds to?
Who's to say
What those even correspond to?

The only you with say
Is the same to make the decision.
What I mean is;
A lot of things are going to get in your way,
Don't be your own obstacle.

ruffle my hair and maybe i will fall asleep
do not strangle me for calls i forgot to return
because i will always do that
i must
i'll write love poems when i wake
and like i once did before
remind you that your lap is clouds pillow
i mean i know
that you do not know
how to make me feel those slippery chaotic feelings i make you feel
but do not love me like i do, i might hate it, love me just how you do
don't shy though
do not hold back, grab me, ***** me
or lull me, whisper to me, stab me maybe
how is all and any of that hard
do you like me more when i am insufficient?
for i can light myself into silver flames to do better
but i am tired

so let me just sit for now
breathe,
but i am afraid to knowingly breathe
what if i suddenly don’t know
what if i only can knowingly breathe
and i forget to


i like the windows open but i like the curtains closed
i like the curtains lifting slightly in the wind
i like the little i see through them than when it's open
i'd rather watch the world out as the curtain lifts for a few seconds

When eve's dark hand descendeth, dropping,
Where fancies creep and whisperings invite to linger here,
She sits upon waters gray as stone,
Veiled in thought, the world stunned and far from here.

The pond gives back lights from ****** and vain,
A whirl of gold, a promise of delight,
But underneath the green and brooding quiet
Lie unrevealed secrets, and unbetrayed fates disposed.

She sits calm, a word unspoken
In mind, peace to stay and be given.
City noises, music so far,
But here she'll reside, peace recovered.

The furrowed brow in contemplation,
Of bygone days, of union.
World so big now—
But all that it contains is here, within.

From the first breath I’ve drawn,
I’ve sought for mountains to climb,
Oceans to swim.
Digging through patches of dirt,
without an end in sight.
An endless persecution for breathing.
Lingering, coasting, and wasting away.

Galavanting with thoughts of an end,
Lost in the forest of trees.
Sinking deep in the ocean of blues.
Strolling beneath a sunless sky.
I was convinced this lifetime was meant to be brief-
Filled with agonizing adventures made to be savored.
Bound to happiness that was evanescent,
slipping away before I could ever fully grasp it.

A future deprived of certainty,
Where nothing awaits.
A garden where nothing grew,
Empty of yearning.
My end awaited me,
and the sentiment was mutual.
Tears blurred my vision as I bowed to defeat;
Whispers of the first ripple of conflict.

Perhaps if my mind were sharper,
they’d see worth in my words.
If I bent to serve the world,
maybe I’d earn a place.
If beauty clung to me like air,
they might drown just to feel me.
But as I am-
a shadow with a pulse-
I am seen, but never held.
If I were anyone but me-
maybe then, I’d matter.

Glimpses of light at the very end of a never ending tunnel,
It beams of longing-
shining with promises of a future never meant to be mine to hold.

But even shadows stretch toward the sun,
and somewhere beneath the ache,
a pulse still fights to be felt.
Maybe-
just maybe-
I am not made to be vanished.
This breath is not the end,
but the beginning of becoming.
I can still burn.
Still become.
Not despite the chaos,
But because of it.

It is not the heart
That is complex
It is the burdens
We place up on it
It's not the reflection,
the mirror reflects
It's what our eyes
see beyond it
It is not the dreams—we've broken
It is the dreams—we've shared
It's not the words — we've spoken
It's the wisdom— we've heard.

i can feel the weight,
on my tongue -
of a heart so heavy,
and a mind so young;
i cannot say -
why i went this way;
i do not know, how to
get off the causeway:

on one end, there’re facts;
though verified, and true -
on the other end, lie feelings,
i never really knew -
i had buried so deep,
i failed to see them through;
the facts - do not change,
but the feelings - they do.

i promised not to rely too much
on one way, or the other;
now i’m stuck, biding my time,
reflecting on shallow waters:
i look, long and hard, and see -
the feelings start to resurface;
but in fact, i see -
a herring’s carcass - floating -
so still, and perfect.

a shadow streaks across my face -
i brace myself for, just in case -
i feel it looming - heinously close;
in fact, it’s an eagle;
i step aside - clear the way:  
the eagle tucks its wings
for a nosedive;
it wants the herring -
dead or alive:
it takes what it wants,
leaves nothing behind -
neither facts, nor feelings;
only ripples of lies.

When old age takes you, years hence, moves, misshapes and betwixt you into mortal parts,
Where once lost memories and thoughts, take centre stage and regret, like famished rodents, gnaw upon your withered heart.
The bodied cage, worn out, divided over many leagues and years,
Time is shorter than a happy smile, so do not waste it with your tears.
  
The mind is frail, yet time and exit frailer still,
Condemned to lonely wonder on that high precipice of early dawn and sky lark shrill.
Regrets prove plenty, akin to timeless grains of sand,
left strewn across the salty shore, which cause abrasive sores both in spirit and in humble man.

The mind again, yes that oldest tempest foe,
Who tries to cheat you of your common wits.
The blind man sees which way to go,
The liars tongue is made of gold, the wise man thinks but never sits.

You search, yet fumble all the same, time and anguished time again, through nameless worn out keys,
To invisible shackles, which are as boundless as the raging seas.
Those spellbound, never ending fetters, ***** and chains,
Like endless seasons dance upon, and tread beneath untrodden moss of natures rains.

You MUST! Leave at once, and elevate your tired being, BEYOND! The confines of our fragile mind,
Free yourself, unbind regrets, mistakes and worries, and leave old burdens far behind.
Or else risk damnation and eternal loss, the final mystery unravelled,
Abandon all you seek of yesterday, and set upon that road less travelled.

We are all but struggling insects, crawling on the face of God entire,
Until that fateful day, at final close of stormy play, we all succumb, relief and vigorous delights await.
To gentle lay and leave our mortal coil upon the wire,
Our aching soul, abandoned, to the wingless, shrouded, hands of wicked fate.