Soul-Poets

I think I was you once but you don't remember then you were your former self absorbed but traces of your former thoughts will sometimes fly across imagination very incomplete your memories appear in dreams sometimes I'm writing a history of a lost people imagined from some fragments of your lost ideas a strange story impossible to forget as long as I remember that I was once a stranger

Fast past a stop light Sitting in the back of a car I caught her eyes for a moment She was untangling her headphones When she looked at me Waiting for something I looked at her from the side window Looking at me from the bus station bench I came and went She sat and watched Only tangled gazes In the evening remain

What will you leave behind when the time comes for you to part? Many of us want to be remembered in some way. To leave just the tiniest seed on this mortal coil. An imprint as evidence that we were once here. If nothing more than a single drop in a limitless ocean. To continue to live on inside the memory of others. This is sought by all but achieved by few because many of us die before we begin to live. The word legacy can be interpreted in a different number of ways. Some may choose to pass it on through their children. Others by the way they lived their life or how they lived their life for others. If nothing else. My desire is to dedicate my life to my stories (selfish as that sounds). For they are a reflection of my innermost thoughts and feelings that mayeth be immortalized. If there is such a thing as fate, an immovable destiny if you will. Then this is mine. I want to leave behind something that can be viewed, analyzed, interpreted, and experienced for years long after I'm

I sigh. In quiet numbness my ears hear the fall Of gentle, violent notes that grieve and scream, And plead for one more touch or one more song Of life, to wake from their cruel, sleepless dream. Yet none will heed their call. It comes, The rising feeling, the sweet sinking dread Of being seen by all and by the few. And I start closing eyes, shivering still, As now it's come to pass, I feel my cue, Hoping my heart has fled. I cry. In gentle, wrecking sobs I plead my guilt Of all that I have spent and lost in vain And beg forgiveness, ask for life, for hope, Counting on fingers sins that bring deep pain. Making me yield. There lies, Upon the hall of greats and of the small, The song. The steady rhythm of the heart That was. And is again beating for Him, In lovely notes. Thus, even the small shard Returns to all.

Erase me Write me over Hold your palm And push Cover me Pull the blanket Thrust me through Take me to that empty place Tell me I'm nothing No one Dust Hide me Smear my face with mud and soot and ash and dirt Swallow me whole Burn my memory Grind me, throw me, press your knee to my spine, deep Rip the song from me Cast me to the wind Scatter me Let me forget myself Let me go away

I'm coming undone, by your treacly little smiles entangled in my dreams into sugar cubes melting in my ripening lips from the thickening heat; white cotton candy garlands — so frisky — clinging onto my raw teeth; warm milk trickling down my parched, aching throat — sinking in too deep; starlight illuminating your pale skin as I nibble on your cheeks; your papery thin butterfly wings fluttering in my heartbeats; vanilla flowers blooming between my sleek legs — moist and sticky sweet; saltwater drying beneath my soft bare feet, staining this reverie.

starlight carries its weary moon the same way you cradle my way-worn blues: asterias illuminate crestfallen skies with your scattered smiles spangling my sunken bones, dim and languid in your dusky arms under heavy nights holding moonlit sighs