Slate

slate-smThe etchings in margins
Greyed out like shadows
Conscious utterances
Painted on in layers
Thick like base oils
Waiting to be conjured
Dried into semiform whorls
That deny this history
As sordid as these epithets
Vitriolic as such
Words as sharpened knives
Cutting down to marrow
Carving into pale flesh
Marginalized like snow
In the blizzard season
By the cold daylight
These drawings in stone
Coincidentally immortal
Consequently material
Melting into the page
Steam rising in response
To everything else
Besides these grey words
That will likely fade away.

The Lady Lies

Her eyes, they lie
Saying such niceties
That burn bright
Before exploding
An expectant glance
Frequent and cunning
This flirtation lost
In definitions it hides
It trades in depth
For shallow platitudes
And a hint of more
Juxtaposed just so
Adjacent to love
But missing the whole
The truth hidden in chaos
These well-seeming forms
That shift with the seasons
Married to an idea
To a transcendental thought
Invisible to most
Necessary like this breath
As it fogs the glass
While he sits on the outside
Watching her from afar
Wondering if his present love
Will be enough.

Disconsolate

sadwomanThe pitter patter of feet
Tiptoeing up stairs
These ghosts unaware
Conversing in tongues
This constant intrusion
A fragmentary pause
Resting in the shadows
Just like we used to
When we were complete
But all I can do is cry
And sing you this lullaby
Full of shallows and lows
That take a kind of patience
To casually define
To fractionally discern
Without fear of reprisal
And this nostalgia that I crave
Was never quite as bold
Never quite in technicolor
As I imagined it to be
This endless consequence
Of frightening decisions
Made in the black of a night
That swallowed me whole
That catches me in its embrace
And leaves me wanting more
Than the echo that remains.