Poems · writing

Habitual Creature

What if in the end

They cut us down,

And all that’s found is the rings.

The circles presenting our being

Our our repetition.

The only thing left of our potential

Rotting there in the ground.

Poems · writing

Whispered Things

I’m afraid my heart is closing up

I’m afraid the love I gave was never enough

I’m afraid of Time

Of the lines it furrows deep between, under, outside my eyes

I fear the timidness lurking inside, a meek spirit waiting to take over any liquid fire slipping passed my lips

I’ve felt it entangle me, encouraging every doubt, stroking each insecurity.

A russet hound, sickly and old

Begrudgingly, I allow these feelings to take hold

Scarcely aware of the inequities.

Old stuff · Poems · writing

Unsettled Feelings

Walking in silence I pull you along, wondering, wandering, your face flushed and long.

Jumbled fingers and skinned up knees, you’re asking me, begging me, crying, “stop, please!”

A whisper is all I can give you. A hand brushed against your face. Water dampens my fingertips, and we rush on.

Running, not walking now, I pull you. Stretching legs and hammering hearts, the wind picks up and suddenly we’re slipping in mud, blinking through rain.

Must I go through this again?

Leaves swirl and branches whip across skin, I’ve lost the path. The sounds begin.

A wailing sound, or is that the wind? It creeps closer and I draw you in.

You’re safer when you’re close to me, or maybe that’s what I tell myself.

I can see the eyes, that scarlet glow, the rotted breath tells me all I need to know.

My arms open.

I leave you here, as I walk to the jaws below.

[January 2017]