midnight

I am outlined in the memory of your void. I am a cut out of myself, paralleled to a universe I remember on friday evenings as the warm sun sets on the tepid week. the choreography of that intimacy has left me hungry for a touch whose roots grow longer than mine, whose faith is wiser in reflection, and whose commitment grounds me in all of his certainty. I want now to be entangled in love … weaving in and out of my own personal independence, with his, growing in spaces we cannot see and surviving the length of time with love buried under layers of passions whose fire burns the stench of my breath. there used to be demons who would summon me, pretending they could feel, forging their hearts into mine so they could forget their pain. they used to walk the lines of my affection .. crisscrossing between sanity and madness … playing games with my heart, hiding behind the refuge they thought was bliss as they fled their uncertainties hunting after me. their weaknesses no longer have welcomed residency in my heart. my strength is like iron now, grounded so deep that it allows me to love the height of passion. I have danced alone, in sparkling moonlights that would last from january to june. I have tasted love and ache on the same tongue that speaks your name and I know now, with complete certainty, that I do not want … but also do not fear the art of dancing alone in the wakes of a midnight air.

Photo: Charles Russel Loomis

“Woodland Fairies Dancing in the Moonlight”

awake

like fingers, our web of maturity stems into the different closets of our past, building upon the insecurities that manifest in our limbs. inside my walls, you echo with brokenness. once again I stand on the sidelines, attuned to the journey we are about to pursue. your smile is hollow. it holds on to the past, disrobing your love into tiny fragments of give and take. I build you up with all that I can, but I fall short in my attempts because I am not her. though she is dust in a memory locked inside your soul, her dirt has been caught in a sandstorm of hurt swirling about your beating heart. you are unaware of its strength. I am awake in its heat.

Photo: http://binford-bellstudio.blogspot.com

white.

there is memory in my silence. dust lines our sovereignty in the length of hours I demand as I lie here in your arms, asleep. I crave your comfort. I reminisce of our time spent, happy, in each other presence, enfolding and folding into pieces of each other foreign to the next. I fall into a stupor, languishing my hours over a cup of lukewarm coffee … the days reminder of your love and the capsule of dynasty I hope to become.

jar

Dissidence once held my hand, separating me from the mass of crazy ants that pitter pattered aimlessly amongst the crowded, lonely streets. I was shaped in divinity, transported from a world where dreams hung like balloons in the size of hangars and were bought “on the house” shedding their weight of disillusionment. my virtue, I realized, was not lost in that rose colored kiss that swam in the jar of glossy affection … my innocence was lost long ago in the desert of carnage and in the sea of waste; in those forbidden illusions that robbed me of grace. I reek now of normalcy and of tempered delight, I’ve dropped all of my belongings.
I have entered the race.

photograph: http://legosneggos.wordpress.com

integrity

I hover in uncertainty, hanging from the chimney of love in quiet dissolution. the mark has begotten me. the time undone. I look forward in fever now, transfixed to the life I always vowed to live. I have separated myself from the cushion of integrity. I have lost what once was mine to claim. I have grown up ages in these months of sugar and bliss … and I have heaped worldy wisdom into these hands of mine that have molded ache into art. once and for all it is final. the innocence I thought was once still mine to hold, is no longer mine to claim. the difference I now feel is resolute. the compromise: over. what was lost to you, is now his to gain and he sits on his throne twiddling his thumbs with a faint wash of sinister malevolence brushing his tiny face. he was won the game and has sentenced me to death in my own land of veracity.

by: Curtis Verdun “The Dance of Good and Evil”