Let me lie.

Coffee has been crippled by the doe - this trembling dry throat.
A cello haunts my chest like a fluid ghost in tapestry, and
I'm tormented with uncertainty of the drum's aim -
Celebration or War.

I don't mean all that I say:
"I'd rather be alone."

Photographs, neglected to keep me ardent for my isolation,
Are tattered when reflected upsidedown.
Now I see you are like my father,
Securing me in your Indian summer.

Blue eyes proud.
Green eyes storming.

Horror unlike gore is taunting me.
For in my last sight of you,
I stand small -
Charmed to be yours.

And now I am large and maladroit,
Unstable as to where I stand at all.

thorn

my eye's veins are in love.

inhaling underground,
comforted by tree root's fortitude,
exalting in red wind mantra,
wearing the veil of dragonfly wings,
steps resounding off my heart's swing....

you held to me a weed -
violet thistle.

my eye's veins are in love.

At Fault

I wish to transpose my gypsy mind to who it was before I suffered it to pattern.

Granny

Her scent pervades her photographs.
Nearing my vanity, I educe my truth;
She, the patroness of quest,
Bids me "digress."

Her scent resides in her pillows.
My wayward vernacular induced coma attempts
To deplete me,
But she
Tucks me in with Ecuador.