The Writer

The frosted grass crumbled under his boots
the shadow of the stones fading
But still they lingered as he sat,
his hands resting on the old black typewriter
How was he supposed to begin?
How was he supposed to choose the words,
when all he had left to give was words?
How could he let them bleed out of his hands,
when his heart had already frozen, when they
were all that he could live with?
He sighed, black coffee eyes dead and grieving,
the kind with burial veils and a sarcophagus
Then he wrote one word
WHY?
His chains tightened, a boa constrictor on his lungs
HOW?
Could he bear it? Did he even have enough words,
to begin to tell a love story
no one had ever heard before?
Did he have the courage to make them realize
this was no fairytale, no tragic romance
but nothing less than his own life,
his own bleeding, broken, bruised heart?

Unmoored

This cannot be
Heat of August, stifling and intoxicating
then this cold sunlight of February
only instead of barren bones
this landscape glows with new grown green
Days fought through have become weeks,
slipped through my fingers,
into months I see only in a glance
May is coming, a month of soft warmth
that descends into heat only as it closes
But how can this be?
The chill of this cold light is more familiar
than the heat of dark green grass
This cannot be. Seventeen cannot come to be
in only five more days.

Shatter

Spun of steel, of unbending spine
Head held high, unwilling to bow
But in the catch of waterslick sunshine
the steel is not so
a clever illusion of sand and lightning

In a clap of thunder, the silent kind,
the illusion would break apart,
scatter the sand and disperse the lightning

Who would dare to be
      that clap of thunder?

Spring

Pale ash, stained
          with burnt umber

Gray sky,
  the kind that steals away dimension

        The only light that remains
  shines through the pale veins

                      of newborn leaves

Dance

Pulse
      of a hundred hearts
Beat
      of a thousand notes
Exhale
      a million breaths
Heat
      of sweat and lust
Ache
      of all the muscles that can be fixed
             with a good night's sleep

White

It does not fade with the melting snownor does its crystal perfume vanish
It lingers, in the soft curves of blooming petals
in puffs against the cerulean blue sky.
on the edges of the sky, resting on hilltops
It bleeds, from the skin of people onto their clothes
as one darkens and the other lightens
It smells no longer of crystals but of
grass and dirt and sun and sky