#poetscollective
As I exhale upon yellowed pages,
Silent and still, the sunrise bleeds between my blinds
And finally, after decades flown,
The first bud of life unfurled
Blooming from old, somber lines
Tucked ’tween folds of old poetic rhymes,
Murmured utterances from wily Hope
And through all that despair do shine—
A few bright filaments of burning gold
I checked my tea,
To see if anything
Had died in there
A drowned gnat or two
Is just extra protein—
A small reprieve
To gloomy boredom
Catch me spilling stars
Across floorboards
Like glitter specks,
They dash around
Impossible to kill
You have to wait
For them to dry up
And become black holes
Fuck them anyways,
Useless ornaments
Writers love them too much
They’re wishes,
They’re tears,
They’re hopes,
They’re nothing to me—
I swear it upon my soul
I speak of them
With exasperation
Stars sicken me
Them and their likenesses
Are etched too deep
—They ruin my dreams,
And stop my sleep
Measure my dreams in grains of sand
A thousand nothing more than
The worth of a single pebble—
In the belly of a ravenous koi
Deafened ears
Silent eyes
Rippled waters—
Reflecting murky skies
What remained
Laid in sullened tune
—With calla lilies
In godless demise
My organs wrung
Then clotheslined—
Like some
common rag
Discarded lungs—
Airbags for the worms
And my
once sharp tongue
Sits ’tween teeth
Delicately dead
This damp cavern
Punctured by
A singular watery tree
The branches splay
Beams of light
Where I lay—
Skin haloed
in mossy wreaths
Flowers before dusk
Curling from darkness,
How you shrink
So timidly inward
You fill yourself
With seas of fears
Though occupying
Minimal space
I would
Kiss your petals
If you
Loved me
Peace with the worms,
Consciousless things
How I’d like to join them
In holy matrimony
With the earth
As the skies weep
I gathered people like dewdrops
Collect upon a lonely leaf
They were made in the clouds
Of pollution and acid rains
I beckoned and waved—
The wind forced my hand
Yet upon my lonely branch
Ne’er a hopeful bird did land
Only dewdrops grew
Little parasitical things
They burned and ate
And I turned yellow with grief
Pocked with holes
In sickly sheen
Ghost.
