In the trenches
I measure your age
by the divets of dry tears
left on your wet face.
I measure your age
by the divets of dry tears
left on your wet face.
Long sighs this morning
and deep furrows
and bags below my eyes
that will, in time, lay me down low.
I fade into the background,
fold into the seat cushions,
and echo between whispers
unsure if I’m unneeded,
perhaps even unwanted,
or just simply unknown.
The springtime rainstorm
suddenly blankets the world
with a white curtain.
In the depths of the night
where there’s no end in sight
spark your own flame
inside your fragile frame
and be another’s light.
Embracing others
helps bring me ever closer
to my own flawed self.
Silver screen,
golden smiles,
and dolla-dolla bills
y’all.
The tall shimmering castle
of alabaster stone:
is it filled with peace
or just silence alone?
While I enjoy the vision
of the untouched stone,
I often wonder what’s the point
when there’s just an empty throne.
There’s the steady weight of sorrow
for those you left behind
as you journey towards tomorrow
through the never-ending sky.
The pallor of a scaredy cat
is strangely quite akin
to the color of the dandelion
rising o’er the vase’s brim.
Isn’t it unusual
that a vice that’s so despised
would be the same hue as the flowers
blooming right before our eyes?