pacified

my loyalty is frugal and shy. i am unable to guard while stationary, and i pray my arms my soul to keep.
i throe with the haunting - yes, i see your words and hear your images.
you were once midas to me, and i ventured after my own platonic in your library mind.
what i found were the tragedies and romanticism of isolation, though now as my thoughts pull themselves through scathing cracks, i realize it was devastatingly perceived.
i found a subtle rebellion, a chaos, a revolution. and to fight the ghosts, i begged for a shell of you.
when my hands clutched the vain wind in triumph, i found the stench of my days in pretense, and resented you for my own request.

to put it simply, i said words in ecstasy that i should have ensnared.
i cried with angst because i didn't know what to say.
i was an awful tangled mess of beginning to be me, and ending as your impostor.

the wrong you have not yet charged me with.

so ask anyone - i elude. i'm no more than a thief sustained by the thrill.
i don't know if i'll ever be my own pillar, and until then, collapsing at the base of you would only cause your temple to fall.
to suffer you that agony again, believe it or not, terrifies me.

"to love, and lose what we love, are equally things appointed for our nature." -lewis

i merely haven't cradled the first. i'm sorry i let you down.

Question:

Is it better to be lonesome and free?
Is it better to be petted and caged?

11-1-10

These days are colored in the Impressionist style. Today is fog, early persimmon; the subject a sick flower. I'm no more a little school girl, perfecting my cursive spelling words. But my fingers scroll the same. Recreating what looms for kill outside the heater-vents. Supplanting myself as frightened beneath pervading rain. Always running. I wasn't meant to be the savior - I'll leave that to God. Macabre and journal in hand, I'll document your downfall. It's what He made me for. If only the critics weren't shy.

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.