she's got fluttering keys in her ribs,
ones that'll open the locks to whichever treasure you wish to seek.
but to get the permission
or be acknowledged,
you might have to give up the key
of all your knowledge.
i've got a thorned flower stuck in my throat.
it blooms usually, and i see beez buzzing around,
trying to get close—
they'd like to.
except butterflies are the only ones allowed,
for they wait, and i deliver
the petals and the cores
they'd like oh so much
on a silver platter.
august is bittersweet,
and then there's nights like these.
i've the right, perhaps, to smell like cinnamon
and honeysuckle—
candied apples dried in the sunsets.
burn the candle that says autumn.
the color? i call for brown.
i hope the leaves shed,
and all the images imagining myself as ruthless— drown.
i'd love the crunch,
love the music—
’cause it's scarf season.
and if it gets cold just right,
i'll pull out that one sweater,
the one i like.
peachy-fuzz almost, like a carrot cake—
enough to hide, enough to comfort,
a warm hug in all its wake.
and perhaps a combination of wildflowers and wine
would go well that one evening
that i ought to spend with love's seasoning.
and we might be dead by tomorrow,
having missed out on all that we planned—
all the things we couldn't do,
feelings we couldn't share,
or the pictures they banned.
but i'll walk with you by the sunset.
these are the good old days,
the golden age,
the future will talk about a couple years further.
like we do—talkin' of time as nostalgia runs through.
perhaps the present is the past.
every second lost is a new one cast
upon the light of our souls,
like the sunshine in the morning—
watching the sun, feeling it bleed through the sky
and fall upon you, sole.
i do not look out the window anymore.
face down in the moment,
wondering, reliving, rethinking, desiring—
the way it shapes you.
a newer tomorrow, for better or worse perhaps.
you ought to respect and accept,
merely ’cause we signed the time's pact
when we first joined in—
the circle of humans,
being termed to be alive.
we listened and followed,
all the rules, abided by all the runes.
it might have brought us to the ruin—
the time's doing.
so i flee into the night to feel
and return back before the first white light,
pretending i wasn't reading
or speaking out loud about all that has vanished.
i sang and committed felonies,
but during the day, i'll wish for the autumn.
look at you, with eyes and words bespoken,
and share the thoughts and this one playlist
that i made to live through the summer.
midnight's a dream many wish to live.
i just hope we were somewhere better to believe and give—
hands full, hearts empty, souls bespactled,
but eyes like sweet ’n sour candy.
there's a before and there's an after.
there's a cord around my throat as i picture
and tell this to you—
the secrets of the world and of our beings.
we weren't meant to live and see.
let's step out,
even as the cord tightens, and even as i grow silent,
i'll sign you, and we'll run through the greens.
let the rain drench us all—
we'll glitter through the later summer sheen.
we were innocents.
capitalized, thrown off the tracks,
told the biddings we ought to serve.
it was never fair, never intact.
and yet—
we played and searched dignities,
wrapped them up, like secrets—
all our possible endings and deficiencies.
the candle's been burning long enough.
it's round the corner, the time has begun—
a play of words, of everything that we've got.
let's throw all the weapons
and light the fire to mop
our solemn and easy-going.
we'll sit, stare, wonder, and wander—
and maybe, finally, for once, achieve what's worth something
to a yearner.
kinda like one you'd read in the beginning of a cult to persuade the surrealists
make way for a midnight in paris
