ache

words exchanged in the dark
seem to hold so much more gravity
under the light of the moon

jibjaberrish

perhaps purging petty preoccupations
can create convincing conglomerations
of
important internal introspections

the lion and the forest

she, that ancient forest,
becomes consumed too easily by fire
and in her younger years
when her sapplings bent easily upon their green
and her dew covered leaves shook with the dawn
she too then was magicked far too quickly
by the iridescent beckonings of twilight
though it was in her transformative era
past the youthful glaze, and firmly in
the years of permanent change
when her dewy leaves had dried precariously
that she was ravaged by a spark that flew in
unannounced, landed, nestled in the deepest
part-- and smoldered and engulfed her core
and nothing was left save for the crumbling
towers of ashes once majestic, green, natural
statues that whispered of the mysteries of the earth
and so she, with trembling branches once again
drew up her boughs and nurtured newness,
basing her nature flesh now not on things past
but on water and fluidity, amorphous amalgamations
of the earth, her mother, because with this
constantly moving formation came rolling, ever
flowing impenetrability~
and so she became the heart of darkness
and many charters fell in obsession with her
her dark ways and her dark feel and her dark
obscurities~ but never did she let them light a
path through her undiscovered tracings--
but on a certain day when her darkness was
almost fully formed and static, shivering in its fullness
a majestic lion sauntered in, the king of beasts,
his tawny mane and glowing fire-base bursting
through her close knitted, light-lacking form
and shed blinding rays around--
she balked and bucked and rolled her leaves
and thought she had won and stoicism stayed
but when the lion left, she glanced down
and saw paw prints, glowing embers singed into her soil

simply

oh but did you know
you all are but fodder
for my imagination's cannon?

pleasant surprise

refreshing rabble-rouser
roused embedded emotions
embarrassed behind beneath
before pupils prayed
pleadingly simply searchingly

scared to move

internal clock

FLEETINGLY
flit, fly, flew
flow, flowered
flourished,
floundered, fell
fled

and so the point is...

cherry blossoms fall
once they have reached their highest
pinnacle of life


... who even takes haikus seriously?

considering the words of romantics

the trappings of the mind
clank toward
bionizing the heart
but between the bars
maybe the soul cries out

no matter, no matter
they are stifled anyway

cents

it sits in the pit of the bowels
stretched through intestines
looped together tight

an anchor, a weight
to chain sponge(naeity)
-- oh there, pull!

tight balls of slick flesh
barricade mushed mashes
of sweet/spicy/salty/savory/ssssssssss

but where do those knots go?
--what eventually where?--
or like a matted ball of fiber

does it cut through your center?

la

she was without form, once
after her organs sat
open to display
her sacred place of creation
placed in glass
on a white plateau of
sterility and germlessness
and when they sutured her
folds of skin back together
they accidentally closed in
her scorching, screaming spirit
and it begged to escape

ideal

at what point must one draw
the line or curvature of thought
instead of awe, but meeting the raw
dethroned reality of the overwrought --
can such a broken form of law
sustain grand non-out revolution
despite the ever gradual thaw
of that desired misconstrusion?