Xaathel

My heart is cold but feet are hot to trot The mold around my legs cracks and falls like Eggshells, I crush them with a step. One foot first, the way it always goes, Now the trick, the shift of weight, Shift, weight, shift, weight, shift, weight Wait There are no longer windows in this place Walled up with brick, mortar, think, quick! Too late, momentum gaining, knees-calves straining My opened hand outstretched, I push through Tear through Rip through the wall that divides length from width and time from space My heart is ice, my feet are keeping pace. This was a place designed for transit Made for communication, screaming to Reach out and

I never knew fire could burn fire until I met you. showed me how candle kindles candle, and I know one's gotta die first, and reason goes to show it's the one lit first that's gonna do the dying. Your lighter click flint steel sparked and burned the edge of my fingertips into bubble blisters kisses. of passion from a minister's daughter, your sisters never knew what happened to you. They don't hear from you anymore. My lips were burned eyes blinded heart stop. and tell me why I burned away hear me laugh in sandstorms and look in the arid stretch of your heart for where I used to be

You are energy directed, pointed, like a spear A comet flying across the Milky Way that reminds me so much of the pale of your skin; my one wish, to catch even some of that light Emanating from the constellation of freckles between your eyes.

The ghostly shades blew through the window; faded fainted color painted years ago, desperately trying to live again, but failing description. The purple of an aunt's kettle, everyone hated it, always leaked, staining pearly lace with brown crappy coffee. The green of hideous grandmotherly wallpaper that all her kids hated but nobody cared enough to change, why ruin her scheming? Purple kettle steaming The red-white-red-white barberpole near Sam's that we never really went to but it was so familiar till the place burned down green wallpaper rotting And this canticle of color did a line-reel over suburbia, blowing nothing at all w

And here I am. Hello big scary world. I meant to look through my gallery, to bask in the frail light of the distant stars, the stars providing so much light but just not enough heat. Funny, that They should be reacting at trillions of degrees and we feel nothing. Is it strange that I'm imagining a big, hollow echo to my words, like nobody's listening. And He had better be listening. He'd better be listening hard.

I can't carry you in my mind anymore and I see the spot on your neck where my lips left their stain marking you as something belonging to someone else.  And damn if you didn't leave one of your own. The time has flown since dark nights and soft music and that mediocre cushioned cerulean couch. and damn if you haven't killed me in my dreams. I see you stand, and know what you look like beneath your facade of clothes, I know your geometry I could write proofs, postulate, pen theorems and damn if you didn't just throw it all away. And on top of it all, at the bottom of it all I wish I could trust you just as far as I

Silent statue stands Glazed-over glare cast earthward Laying your soul bare.

Baby, I'd walk all over you, because you are broken Glass beckoning a finger's touch, a toe's caress, oh, so very Dangerous but so shiny and friendly, it would only really hurt for a second And then a lifetime after that. You're diamonds set in the ornate Carpet next to my kitchen counter, and I can't seem to brush you out not with a hand broom, a push broom, a vacuum, you are entombed In my subconscious, subliminal submarine, Entrenched in my Vichy France, never to leave, however much I grieve, staying to occupy. I feel like I've wasted love On you, oh-so-chaste dove whom is clearly NOT from above, but rather a middling pla

             The sun shone yolk-yellow on us, all the same. That is, until they realized our stock of sun simply would not last. Not forever. They blocked it with solar panels, for our own good, to save up what little was left. Then they had an idea, that we didn't have much water left, and we were using it much too quickly. They blocked the rain with massive dishes, just below the sun catchers. Then came the food. And words. And then came time. They rationed our time and handed it out, like communion, our weekly ration of God, was that time. That is, until they day they tried to ration a soul. Their machines Whirred with a dem

Always comes around and goes around, with a passion for perfect curves, for only they can start Anywhere and go anywhere, returning to the beginning as if it were the end Because it is. The end, that is. The end that is, was, and will be. His is the double-edged sword, he can be Instant or labor to destination for years, decades, millenia, but he always arrives. He is the god of the first and last shots fired, he joins them in curvature,to end as they always do, in a perfect circle. Coming and going.