A natural Holocaust rages, today
tearing away at the elderly standing
for decades and now, overturned.
It consumes, burning brightly a
condolence candle composed of acres
melting together in ashen soil.
It denies, habitual homes and
dewy dusk laden grass growth
currently fenced in.
Restrained by manufactured life
tiling leased land feebly privatizing life
momentarily without hindrance
focused solely on today.
Blind stumbles numb my hands
smacking into half-painted walls
leaving smudged reminders, of where
I am or was but exuding no direction,
my fingers point up and left right,
with no care for etiquette riddling to each
onlooker my worries; what will become of a
man who feels lost in his home.
I, know there is nothing to fear
for, I, have my windows open permitting
unfiltered light to naturally dance upon walls
but, I, know that those walls will never be more lively
than when, I, make-believe animals with shadows and cast
the absence of light against the wall with motionless movement
provided by the ever setting sun but, I, fear not the sun setting
nor do, I, fear the darkness that disembodies my imagination
and turns my out stretched hand foreign from my body
but rather, I, fear that this is as lively as my home
will ever become with walls colored through
created shadows instead of painted by
love, that is what scares me.
How can I know if I
have moved on,
actually separated my past
with my present while
obstructing you from my future?
Is the answer in my words,
visible in how I talk to my friends or family?
Who might interpret my
words as an act to veil my true feelings,
but don’t my actions define my thoughts
or is it the reverse,
in which my thoughts tell me how to
act, speak, feel?
So how can I know if I am really
How can I define my infinite actions,
speculate over how I articulate,
and muse over my thoughts
I am reflecting on you, us, me.
A single misguided step
found myself lost,
once walking along the shores
of your rocky love yet now
treading violent waters impassioned
with your ire, so I,
I open my mouth for air enough to
call out your name hoping
to find safety but I choke, gagging on
bitter air that has been seasoned
by distrust and set to a heated to boil
burning my throat and sending any hope
of our future together into the sky
vanishing as steam.
delicate, in your
small shaky hands.
All the while
unnerved by its
and that inevitable
closed fists have
crushed and thrown
with the verbal
punches, as if
for months so that
you could fight
with your eyes closed,
by our last