Rolling hills and butterflies

He plods along
his head hung low,
his past and future
he drags in tow

And dreams as hope
then slowly dies,
of rolling hills
and butterflies

With a steady gait,
this fool of time,
just plods along
life’s hellish climb

And left alone
he bears his wait,
he bares his soul,
and bears his hate

Thus in his mind
he wants to hide,
with wings of dust
o’er pastures wide

Until his steps
lead him one day,
where he can go
to fly away

Movie night

Moonray nocturne
at sweltering dusk,
sweat bedighted lines
from the pale actor’s
whip, rake his torso

Obdormition onset
by ignavy, recumbent
on his bed, mesmerized
by the spinning blades

The rotation mingles
with blueish hues and
shadowed cues; dust
provides the grain
in this 16mm strobe

A movie projection
flickers to life, of life;
choices and decisions,
questions and questions
and confessions

Obsessive palinoia
righting the wrongs
into award-winning
fictions; speeding ictus,
ceding critics

Spinning blades, subtle
invitations made, keratin
knives and bloody palms,
paresthesia spreading
with breaking dawn

Celluloid swatting,
end of the reel, marks
start of the real;
until again movie night
comes around

Sleeve redux

A chest that bears his emptiness

Which the blood-stain will profess

Soaked completely down to his sallow skin

Leaving no choice but to redress

There’s just one shirt that remains to him

The raiment in which he grieves

It’s black and burned and stained in tears

With sorrow adorning both sleeves

*I didn’t like the (rushed) first one; here’s a redux
*feel free to let me know which you think is better


Thank you for the smile, can you tell me where you got it? Oh, it’s yours? No wonder you give it so freely; it’s beautiful.

What a fortunate twist of fate, that you were bestowed such a gift. Many are not so lucky, that is to include me. Most are merely masks; insincere attempts for favor, hidden within parted lips and acceptable behavior. I’ve never been one to play the game, so I’m sorry, I don’t have my own to give in return.

From the inside, you say? But how did it get there? I can’t believe you were born with it. Surely, though, it must have been nurtured therein. Perhaps, as a youngling, your parents planted it, and fed to it love. Perhaps later, it rooted from societal zeitgeist. Have you always been told of your beautiful smile?

They are like razors to my jugular, vertical stripes astride the apple. Carving away the knot from this apple of no eye. Had I the unerring desire to leave this place, I’d surround myself with beautiful smiles. What better way to die…

Why did I thank you for the smile then? A rose proffers its beauty genuinely. Its only motive lies in a simple complexity, to have others bask in its profusion of grandeur; solipsistic maybe, but innocently so. Without calculation. Only an overwhelming overture to spread.

Ah! Your smile grew just then, as did the roses upon your cheeks. This is how I know it’s true, because of the company it now keeps. Without calculation, and it then spread.

As I said, I don’t have my own smile to give you, but that’s not to say that I can’t give you one anyway.