Panicked to be Free

I stagger around in my thoughts…as if an open book

as if a locked attic with no key and skeletons that wish to be free

My panic sets in whether day or night

In small snippets I remember the daffodils, the farmland, the rebirth, the light

In small, form fit spaces…this is where the head and the heart fight

I assume nature is alarmed, possibly having already panicked years before

Perhaps, the reason for a locked attic door

A daydream within a dream

Cry the Languid

Sometimes, I wonder too much…if I wonder too much.  Live life within a dream.  Or, at least, a daydream.  

How lucky am I?  To look up, as well as, down.

As if my grievance with nature is that of anxious inspiration.

As if these walks were cheap snippets of temptation.

“You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
Edgar Allan Poe

Rolling Back the Years

At some point,

promises given out…weigh greater than…the ones kept.

The heft of diminishing worlds…overwhelm delicate scales of time.

An eternity of missteps…lost in tall pines.

Stockpiles of contrasting beauty…yet, no apparent sign.

I frequent my primitive vows.

Though they have snapped and rotted…

Cracked and shattered…

Receding over the years.

Bare and illegible, I must own my incomplete ‘why’!

Seek it out under azure skies.

For without ownership,

I am but a false warrior.

With a fistful of lies.

Your Touch has grown Cold

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

your touch 1

In…Mother’s Nature, she keeps me

she keeps me 2

 

In Mother’s Nature…

She keeps me gentle

She keeps me sapient

She keeps me legitimate

She keeps me with timeless testsshe keeps me 3

She keeps me with flesh

She keeps me with dignity

She keeps me shady

She keeps me with chemistry

She keeps me with fragile, breakable reverie

She keeps me

She keeps me

she keeps me 4

…a most indulgent mother, has placed her best gifts out in the open, like air, water and the earth itself; vain and unprofitable things she has hidden away in remote places.
##Thomas More