The Cubicle

There he lay

Beaten, battered, and bruised.

Void,

yet, still reaching

for something finite, something tangible.


 

There she stood.

Among the clamor, cacophony, and distress;

she remained calm—

unwavering, and withdrawn.


 

And there they encountered.

Spontaneously, unannounced,

without premeditation.


 

Then they loved

without cause, rhyme, or reason.

Perfectly,

without flaw, crack, or blemish.


 

Unconditionally,

with bells, prayers, and vows.

From now until.

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Dahlias

Dahlia

But who am I, If not for You? Who are You, if not for me? And what is We, if not for Us?


Let us climb the highest mountain

to its peak and plant a seed.

Let us monitor its beauty

as it blossoms.

Let us catapult to the canopy and

crawl onto a most fragile limb.


May passion ignite from this corpse

releasing the pain from this tomb

that will set our souls free.

May we scour this planet

in search of a split second;

that moment that freezes time for all eternity.


Let us burrow deep into this barren land

in hope to find that feeling

we so desperately yearn for.

Let us dive into the darkest caverns of our pasts

to relive our last breaths.


But most of all,

may we examine our own souls,

and delve into the most foreign depths…

for the strength and courage and resolve

to resurrect;

to intertwine our fingers and hands

and combine our hearts and minds;


to unite our spirits

in hope for a glimpse of

the phantom, the myth, and the legend

that is love.

Ripples

A lie, a deception;

a regret or mistake?

For weeks I’ve wandered,

with weary legs,

wondering where to go;

and at last, a sign

showing my journey

is sure to end.

Ahead lies a fork in the road,

a path must I take;

a decision to be made

between right and wrong.

I will not deny destiny

for I cannot fight fate,

and though it weighs heavy,

this choice is mine to make.

Aware that the truth hurts,

I can’t take the honest route.

I have to lie now

because I told a lie then –

solely responsible,

for the bed I will lie in.

Ponderings

So I’ve come to grips with the fact that I feel. Not only that, but I feel strongly.
This comes as a surprise because for as long as I can remember I’ve been a master in the art of elusiveness.
And yet now, I feel.
A gift and curse really.
I feel and I feel good feeling, but now I feel weird because I don’t know how they feel about me feeling. My old sentiments would be, “fuck how they feel,” but now I feel as though care. I hate it, but I love it. What if you feel that I felt too strong or perhaps too fast. Or maybe you just don’t feel the same? These thoughts plague your mind when you feel and I feel as though feeling may not be the best option for my sanity. But then again, was I sane without feelings?

Musing

Awestruck –

oft, gazing into the moonlight

the conscience is consumed with thoughts of you.

I become a spectating silhouette

while your ever distant presence radiates in the mind’s eye

dimming the stars.


For you, for your smile,

I personify all that is cliché.


My Muse—

I liken your words to the sweet sound of a mythical flute.

Your heartbeat outlasts every drum buried at Wounded Knee.

You are a flawlessly princess-cut rarity

whose carats remain uncalculated.

Your inner being is perfectly sculpted with precious precision.

You are an image that exemplifies

all that one could ever dream.

Canyons

(“Canyons” explores the struggle of a writer’s when inspiration becomes elusive. One of my processes to overcome Writer’s Block is simply writing about Writer’s Block [that’s jarring], and the other is revisiting old, often incomplete, works in hope that something within me will revive and words will just flow again. Canyons is a product of option one but depicts the latter process. As always, questions, comments, and feedback are welcomed and encouraged. Enjoy!)



Timidly,

I trudge toward the tattered table

and plop down.

The stainless steel seat sends shivers up my spine.


These stacks of unfinished works form a canyon,

and when rummaging through the hoard

in search of inspiration—a voyage ensues.


Descending into a darkened valley of Despair,

Desperation drags me deeper and deeper


until empathy sides with the parent mourning the stillborn.

I, the creator, gaze at each underdeveloped

fetus, my creations.


Bitterness, Resentment,

or another similar demon possesses my mind

as I observe this barren wasteland.


Can you concede this was once a canvas?

Here, I created,

and now it lies there,

a lifeless pit.

Death Cawing

Outside, the Crow caws with conviction,

neglecting its impact within

the confines of this boarded building.

Here, lost souls maintain open ears that

eavesdrop on talks of life and death.

Hovering notes of a Death-bird

orchestrate a score strong enough to

usurp spirit from soul, mind from body.

Sweet sounds of the departed

echo throughout.

Walls

I’ve built walls, and torn them down.

I’ve torn walls down, but rebuilt them.

In the end, it becomes clear that the sheltered man is the safe man.

Good fences make good neighbors, but what about great walls?

I lug around this body of bricks, shedding mortar tears.

This pain-filled paste binds blocks together as I pile them high.

I’ve been cast in the role of the fool far too oft, but no longer.

Brick by brick by brick, I pile them long.

Brick on brick on brick, I pile them high.

Remus leapt my wall once, leaving blood on my hands,

but I’ve learned since then.

Strangers

But how can one be so fond of a person they barely know?

It baffles, and yet is the current predicament.

Tunnel vision, with a destination seemingly feasible, but reach is in question.

The fear of it being an illusion, a mirage,

only heightens the sensation.

Is it imagination that recklessly steers us on this path?

The pondering of matching voice to face.

The contemplation of whether her curls carry the aroma of Pantene or Herbal.

(or maybe even a spritz or hold)

The wonder of how her palm sizes up to mine,

hand in hand, fingers intertwined.

The musing on typical dinner and a movie date— dapper me and her in all her glamour—

or something else entirely, cherished forever:

an icebreaking commute to a remote location

to hike up to an elaborate picnic

where we discuss nature in all her glory,

art in all its faces and forms;

childhoods and how our Timelines have slanted slightly,

incomprehensibly bringing two parallel lines to an intersection.

A plausible outcome? Wishful thinking?

The sun dial shifts, only time will tell.