Way up high
Above the clouds that bleed into the sky
Above the whispers that weave
Above the sick who retch and heave
Above the dove bloodied by roses thorns
Is a cavern;
Tattered and tainted
By white and silence
By dark and quite
By talking of the silent.
Above the groaning storm
Splattered are the bare
On the willow wicket.
More than gone
More than here or there
More than the sinking dawn
More than the bold billed swan.
In that cavern
Spindles of riddles
Of patterns and patience
Crushed by the sound that never was.
Clean and distilled is the breathe
That breathes what they speak.
Torrid and humid and sickly and sweating
Are those who speak what they breathe.
The cavern is all but glass
All but chiseled stone
All but always here
All but always alone
Up in the cavern cove
Forever is the unknown.
With a drink in hand,
My mind wanders to another land.
Where streams float around,
And clouds walk on the ground.
I take one sip, or two, or three.
My wordless love I decree,
To the stranger slouching next to me;
They say they don’t believe in love: only world peace.
I break the bottom of my glass,
On the sturdiest chest.
The treasure will not open as time will pass,
Not for old keys, not for any women’s breast.
The stories I could tell,
None would be my own.
They are all a hopeful spell,
To turn the past into stone.
The tender palm on my hip,
Is my own, searching for the slip.
The zipper to this costume, I cannot see,
But the cracked glass in front me might just be the key.
Love is this,
Love is that,
Love is a kiss,
Love is a hat.
Love is women,
Love is men,
Love is hidden,
Love is zen.
Love is red,
Love is blue,
Love is spread,
Love is you.
This all holy feeling
Let it last forever
My senses are reeling
In this painful endeavor
To love...
A buzz in the fuzz of winter,
A glare in the glass a gleaming,
A pang in the present past,
A tap in the misfits step.
Wreaths don’t breathe, they smell of sap,
They don’t pine after the seeds so far away,
They were chopped, and on the slab of their brother they lay,
It all went fuzzy when the guy came and knocked them down in a flurry.
Principles of the sacred panes stay,
A brick crashing through rainbow light is not the way,
Stow away the sand and burner for another day,
The church bells went ringing as the glass glanced at the past.
Black and white is an old fashioned view,
They’re sold on numbers and names; unforgotten,
It's their fault, it was never meant to be,
It hurts, the present is no longer them, they think past is key.
Locked in the locker of books and decay,
Purple, gray, blue, green, they see it everyday.
Crazy, mental, deny it they dare,
The misfit goes on while the victim goes elsewhere.
A buzz in the fuzz of spring,
A glare in the brass a gleaming,
A pang in the present pleasing,
A tap in the victors step can be misleading.
