My soul is a sunflower blossoming yellow petals and bittersweet seeds that crackle under the tongue or the heat of the sun, its withering leaves brushing together mindlessly, like lost memories.
My body is a green stem that holds my sunflower soul skyward despite the presence of birds and the danger of breezes that might pull loose some crackly seeds at any moment, casting them to the dirt below.
maybe to grow maybe to grow
maybe to rest for a time in my hollow shadows we may never know
that glow green-radiant in unkempt spring breezes and rustle across the un-tuned strings of my weary heart in the most sweet-melancholic melody
Like the ghost of a memory, that melody stirs something somewhere in the deep recesses amid the vines, the phantom limbs of the breeze hugging my heart in the wailing and whistling vocals of my ancestors.
The vines wrap around my heart tightly against the dusk and the promise of cold, their old and reborn roots anchoring me as the blue-frost edges of sunset take hold.
Blanketed by ghosts and memories, my heart aches as I recall amid the piercing notes of my Blue Tuesday heart-string blues how many vines I tore up, expecting to remain rooted.
By low lamp light and long after the sun has said its goodbyes Our weary and tired eyes run across unfolding pages Seeking all the knowledge that by the light of day passed us by And losing daylight hours in the process
We lean drowsily in reading chairs against bookshelf backdrops Watching raindrop reflections roll thoughtfully down window panes Borne along their whimsical way by subtle midnight breezes That dance strands of hair from our eyes like ballet
Our split screen symmetry is separated by mere miles Filling our solitary spaces with a shared energy So that each time my absent eyes turn to scattering raindrops I expect them to return to find you here
Each page I turn is soft marked with traces of your fingers And your scent lingers among allusions and allegories I hear each word sing out as though sprung from your alluring lips And I find myself smiling not knowing why
There is passion amid these worn out pages and bookmarked thoughts And the way your fingers traced each word is almost erotic Feeling my palms soft folded against the small of your book’s spine Makes me want to lose sleep between its covers
The silence between phrases pulses with such heated tension That I cannot help but lose myself in that silence so that I might grasp the pieces you let me see of your history And warm them tenderly in ardorous hands
The tired longing of the early hours of the nighttime Draws us both – at length – to the comfort of our separate beds Our internal rhymes slowly syncing through shared breath and heartbeats Dreaming of morning reading between soft sheets
Under the darkness of a new moon, The Dead Sea is a mirror that casts no reflections, A surface made of glass, primed to shatter, or burst, doomed to return to sand – forever to run in-corporeally through the fingers of cupped hands.
Wade into the water as deeply as you can, but you will not leave a ripple. Your brittle bones will slip beneath the surface like a ghost and if you dream to dive deep into the sea, know that the thick water will swallow you in a single breath and spit you out on the coastline long before the water considers giving up its depths.
Since everything is a reflection of our minds, everything can be changed by our minds. – Gautama Buddha
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