Burst Apart

I cover the windows and wonder, In murky whispers, If all ceases to exist

Beyond these abstractions I weave

in daydreams scribbled on paper,

Beauty preserved in pristine fiction

as I trace old shadows on new walls.

For does my tenderness contort upon release,

Weigh heavy upon the ears of each muse,

Drawing suspicion with unveiled words,

Like an open door to an empty core.

There is much ache I spill to the ground,

By my own hand in its confusion,

Leaning on false walls of fortitude,

Deducing what love is not.

Where lies the art to burst apart...

With tendons too tired to move

From stitches sewn so long ago

and a yearning to be known.

Second Skin

  In many a crowded room,

filled with serpentine questions,

fictions form our second skin.

I feel those establishment hisses

in the liquored language of cities

are filled with towering conquests

built upon foundations of smoke.

And I feel the distance of continents,

As I listen to a litany of seasoned speeches.

Sweetened with heroics, spiced with drama

and bittered with the woes of privilege.

And I wonder...

In the brief silences between us,

Beyond these elaborate orchestrations,

If we know each other at all

or if we care to.

For with each passing day

it seems that  the pressures

of conformity are pale against

the void of not being true.