Dreaming in Texture

Empty manifestations with minds of their own.

But will first blush, allow for separation of church and body?

In the bronze light of smoke-filled ambivalent days,

azure skies.

Course,

I have never liked blue.

Considering it always looked pungent on you.

Why is it…only in the light of night,

you clearly,

always,

wanted more for less?

No matter,

past or present,

dreams are in texture

and

color in screams.

Faded rust,

peppered with,

a crunch,

beneath bare-feet.

Nighttime in fallen leaf.

Self Preservation Behind the Sacristy

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What good has it done?

…the pressure,

…the deriding,

…the mountains,

…the mole hills.

I have read the leather books, as requested.

Obedience does not stand still.

In dark seriousness,

all is not fair in love and war.

So little known of,

a women’s scorn.

Of matter,

harsh

and

shuttered,

the rooms that made us who we are.

The passage to tranquility, a distance too far.

The broken bough, a fine line of scars.

I have hunted my state…

the town fairs,

country stores,

mildewed bogs,

and,

so much more.

I have rummaged by the drunk nuns behind the sacristy.

Shame the only word found befitting

a tapestry of travesty.

Once upon a time,

I was led to believe there had been no way out.

After all, it takes years to break the doubt.

Step by step,

the unbinding of provincial doors.

Pen to paper,

my own book of revelations.

Testaments and edens of martyred manifestations.

A self-appointed release from damnation.

 

All the While

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No significance to where it came from.

Love, did not grow beneath my nails.

Charm not from the dust kicked up behind my wheels.

Angst,

neither, the heel.

Nor, from how the heart heals.

I had been let in by way of luck.

Faith, came down only by the shower of your smile.

And,

it is at your welcome,

I wait all the while.

 

 

Dreaming in Texture

Empty manifestations with minds of their own.

But will first blush, allow for separation of church and body?

In the bronze light of smoke-filled ambivalent days,

azure skies.

Course,

I have never liked blue.

Considering it always looked pungent on you.

Why is it…only in the light of night,

you clearly,

always,

wanted more for less?

No matter,

past or present,

dreams are in texture

and

color in screams.

Faded rust,

peppered with,

a crunch,

beneath bare-feet.

Nighttime in fallen leaf.

Sunday Drives

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If I had dared to share words…mile after mile…I may have missed a trinket or two..

such as, fair, care…

Most notably…faithful…beware.

The tires have grown weary.

The surface of things…brittle and callous from the salty tides.

Queries… once again…to the growing bucket of  worshiper…beware.

These Sunday morning drives.

Heading down to church.

Not something that was planned just an ache…

An itch for you to scratch.

And, from the beginning…the agreement…our spirituality does not match.

As a matter of course, our faith source had succumb to a greater course.

It has been my pleasure to share in your god.

Our Sunday drives no longer a destination of fruitful vine fields that wane.

In the passenger seat…just after daylight has begun…

infinitely…finding your god and mine…one in the same.

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