PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I took a certain bus ride into town,

And looked around.



There was no return.

Now.

What lead me here

Was your hand in my hair,

Pretty much surrounding me,

Heavily,

Deep where there is no root.



In this final affair,

During the beginning of December,

I had a hard time,

Remembering what I had left behind.



I missed the train go by,

So I wept on the tracks.

Never, would I have surrendered,

If the trees just whispered to me,

Anything.



All the billboards,

Fell to the ground.

Suspending into the filth

That once held up a carousel.



These wing tipped shoes,

Ready to take off.



I thought, why should I look now?

There is a tumult of strings

In this orchestra,

That even when the horn blew,

Found their way through

To the graves of where the bodies were.



Steady and stay,

Blindsided magician.



Every organ in your body,

Became unjust,

And a hard time.

They were side lying

And full of water.



To end this,

A crush of a napalm.



In the spirit of the vine,

I dig up the ground

And gently with my ax,

Got down,

And ruined the grand design.



A sulking spirit

In all of us,

Who gathers stones,

Collected in tattered boxes,

Flushes out what is left in us

That, which has turned

into a cinnamon red.



Sometimes

The heaving becomes

A scratch on my lips,

And a burst in the water.

This is real.



Hey, you there,

I’ll be just a minute,

I’ll come running out



And pay mind to you

With words,

Knowing I’ll fall away,

Like a scoundrel of leaves

Climbing up trees.

I sweat in my short sleeves.



Oh, you were in shambles.

So hoo- ray.

So were the rest of us.



We broke the covenant

And did it without grace.

So hoo-ray.

So who do you?



There are hives on my hands,

And they become driftwood

Toward my eyes.



The walkway could barely contain

The people and their perception:

A surface tension,

A remembrance of the good things.



And that, I long

To take back.



It comes down to the wire.

The helicopters

Circling those who fear them.

The red night.

The hospitals.

A crooked fame

Has led you here.

The answers to the questions

The government

Couldn’t fix for you,

Are barking up trees

That sway in the direction

You’ve always wanted to go.



It is my every intention

To pinch your corpse awake.



Servants on the freeway,

Who listen to the king

And his transgressions,

Who, after their heels cave,

Cave themselves

Because of lost restraint.