Why is it that we are born with such imagination,
only to have it taken away when we grow older?
There are some of us left, it is true.
But we are not the mighty,
Weeping, strange angels we become,
crying over those who could have been and tortured by the veneer of existing.
What kind of life is that?
When we could use dust to fly instead?
We could do extraordinary things, it is true.
a good play,
may just unlock the secrets of the universe.
I wish I knew how to look at you,
because then I may understand why your eyes never smile.
They find my face,
but can’t bring themselves to answer my questions.
It breaks me,
because I never learned your language.
So I can’t ever be one of you.
The eyes that you gave me,
aren’t lasting out here.
I’m losing you,
Is this an addiction?
Am I suffering in silence or is this how you teach?
It seems you set me up for failure,
when I met you.
I hope you enjoy the taste.
There she stands,
a pillar of salt,
Her lungs were taken from her,
because she looked back.
She with her eyes like desert pearls,
now covered in sand.
How dare you,
dripping ink on her canvas like she is something to be written. There is no story here.
No one wins the battle and the war does not exist. It is only her, standing there forever because she dared.
And when the night finally falls, tears drip from fingertips,
only you do not get to be the one to wipe them away.
You avert your eyes,
as though they can pierce you with theirs.
Because you know they can.
Because then you’d have a hard time feeling self-righteous. You’d kick yourself for walking by.
Is that ego really so important?
We rise to the visions that others project,
falling to the ones that no one wants to see.
He dabbed a sprig of liquid lavender on one wrist.
Then the other.
His mirror gawked at him,
struck blind by such brazen behavior.
The crystal bottle shook as his hands did,
which made replacing the cap difficult.
His father didn’t know.
His father didn’t know about the silk scarves stuffed into a small slit in the upstairs mattress. His father didn’t know about the trips to the theatre district, and the lace costumes she had tried on.
Was there no mercy? No understanding?
Of course not,
this was a man’s world.
There stands time, not as a grandfather, but as a threadbare coat. Thrown on the bed, or the vertebrae of a chair, waiting. Time waits for no man, but birthed patience in the stead of something greater. This coat, a needy thing, rejects all who wear it, particular to a fault. And whose fault is it? Is it he, worrying at the dregs of his morning coffee? Is it she, plucking mournfully at the whiskers of her cello? Or is it the unfinished manuscript, curled against the banister, forgotten? This coat, with ears upturned, eyes tarnished, and smeary skin, it neglects to mention who it waits for. The thing retains glorious roots and an empty tongue. This vain supposition lies misbegotten, its birth not of the womb but of the mind. Can you feel it now, tugging at your sleeves with its dull teeth? Chipping away at your eyesight, a malignant Michelangelo. Immortality is a broken sewing machine, pinned to the eyes of the beholder. I think you’ll understand when you’re older.
She peers through lenses to see the world,
she sees it through fire.
She believes in solutions and concentrations,
an owl amongst pigeons.
But she is kind.
She doesn’t believe in much,
only what she sees through the smoke.
Her vision is hazy, but she is keen.
She puts her faith in the smeared glass in front of her,
a broken pocket watch without a chain.
She renounced god a long time ago,
breathing through her nose and eating the fire that licked her face.
They collided once,
the flames and the monocle.
They destroyed each other.