The Night

Choking on a splinter in the night...the plight...I need to write like a fighter needs to fight, but my computer electronically decomposes when my insides are twisted like muscodine grape vines strangling a hundred year old live oak..the irony in the name when at a hundred it's so close to death.

If only I could sleep, not weep a wound into velvety blood, running o'er, stop the Goddamn flood. Weary and weak, the sunlight is bleak in....

...the night.

Sometimes

Sometimes....I miss him.

A Weed In The Wind A Friend & The End

Fickle and free, I look in the mirror and think...when did it become so aesthetically fucking cool to look so damn disheveled and careless? Not dirty, but messy. Disheveled and right at home in a home where nothing stays in its place not even me. Flighty and flowing like a  breeze or early spring rain spattering from the sky into a puddle that runs into a million little rivers down in the earth only to be the catalyst that turns death to life, springing forth like time lapse photography verdant vegetation that I may become the beautiful weed in someone's garden if only for a certain time until the weed is replaced by a cunning rose bush covered in red budding blooms like velvety blood in a flood...

....but the weed was a seed and the rose has thorns. 

So the little weed goes back to a seed and drifts in the wind until it finds another special place to bloom where there's plenty of room and the smile of a friend means a time to begin and life starts allover but with each blossom and seed the weed never forgets he who smiled upon her that time in a bottle where life was a throttle...and it doesn't hurt anymore for when she looks at a rose she knows he's better off lest he feel the thorn.

And There Lies the Sun

Tearing through the fog like a horseman, galloping into gridlock, nigh is the blackness, the fatness of hogs flying into neverland. A wing and a prayer, grab your sword if you dare because it cometh like death, the night, the fight...I close mine eyes, pray for light, but there's no rest for the wicked in a thicket of thorns thirsting for blood, I burst from the snare of the evil one's glare and am blinded in blunder...flying through the sky like Lucy with diamonds,  a heater against my feet, I look down beneath...
                                                        ....And there lies the sun.

Back Away or Bother...

Back away or bother? There lies the question, the answer  a needle in a haystack hardened like a new

.corpse in Canaan that passed into dust whilst seeking sweet forgiveness on a splinter for winter came too fast, that cold arctic blast but why must the cold caress the Crusader when hell hath no honeysuckle that sweet dripping daylight turns into darkness  thicker than clouds in a cottony candy lane like a labyrinth laid in lilies we feast on the sorrow of a thousand wrinkles in time on a dime, grey matter screams with decisions much fatter than fascination or any imagination could muster even under the  moonlight to... back away or bother.

Sleeping Man and a Corpse

“All I know is that while I’m asleep, I’m never afraid, and I have no hopes, no struggles, no glories — and bless the man who invented sleep, a cloak over all human thought, food that drives away hunger, water that banishes thirst, fire that heats up cold, chill that moderates passion, and, finally, universal currency with which all things can be bought, weight and balance that brings the shepherd and the king, the fool and the wise, to the same level. There’s only one bad thing about sleep, as far as I’ve ever heard, and that is that it resembles death, since there’s very little difference between a sleeping man and a corpse” 
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quijote de La Mancha

On Leaving

It's not leaving this earth that frightens me....
But who would look out for those that I care so
deeply for.
So blessed. So grateful. So tired.