The stories end, par She Writes

She Writes

The stories end

naked skin, cold and unnecessary

all the poetry inside, the curtain, the movie theater

dropping dusty

upon the frailty of my words

the world, too old

my thoughts, too young, too same

I suffocate, velvet brocade

truth is old, truth is heavy,

words young, juvenile

so silly, so painted in the dreams of the child

stand silent on the stage

barren and bold

naked skin, cold and unnecessary

paltry desire, bosom heaved and pale

let the repainting begin

rebirth, each stroke

alone and more alone

while they watch and know what you become

what you’ve always been

velvet curtain brought down,

softly breaking each moment,

painful it suffocates each truth

with the weight of the stories end

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with aching, dull shard

it is a numbing a piercing of the proverbial heart with aching, dull shard a cold depth swallowing lungs contract, fluid-filled

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The metaphorical heart Burnt in frozen grasp As the stale air, travels, labored far from memories, moments of horror caught

waning never was

the taste of purple inundation eatery fingers flowing in scratching clutch we hold

His and Hers

The touch that spans length and difference I feel the distance that he holds captive in heart and… one reach, one touch

Stalemate

starlight sings silver catalyst for dreams the woosh of the window unit roars with smokey tang on my lips, I shi… shoulder to door pane, perceptions…

I count them, and remember

I list their names on my heart Count them... ad nauseum, infinity… They, who sew my shroud. I list their names on my heart They, who released it

mine

there is neither peace nor dream in a day. truth spattered, canvas inundated. bubbles fluid, liquid no longer...

mirror, mine

his exit, his entrance stars in solemn shades countdown in pink orbs we, burning out suns commencing solitude

Always the cliche

and in that tear, everything broke every shard of pain, every loss the losses yet to come her voice, her heart caught

had i been a painter

base of an eggshell in a portrait of painting she is pure canvas had I been a painter she would direct turpentine

Rise

He speaks with a purpose that dema… with soft, soliloquy of word to sh… the emulsification, the blood of b… and women carrying the weight of m… Storyteller. Anthropologist.

for the beauty of the day we wept huddled mass one, singular in thought we

The F Word

fallible fallen features flawless foes feel, feel, feel formulated

this moment sparkles

there is a chamber there is a heart we dream it we taste it ours, unconditionally

The skin around their eyes, a canyon

She saw them fishing poles in hand, walking fro… Fingers, gnarled, crippled with the passing of age. The skin around their eyes, a cany…

She Writes

The stories end

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