How would the rodents speak
What words would they say
“Yes, you, bring berries to your back yard
And all manner of citrus and apples alike
Fresh, full with fructose, on these barren of days
We planned well for the season
The Winter in May of the Spring
Evidence our good-faith actions
Our holes in diligence dug
Where we find once again, our daily bread
While our feathered Southern friends, oh!
How they need, need, need your hand
We’ll let them dine
We promise”
Too emotional
And I’ve been called far, far worse
I’ve been called yellow
I see the trajectory
By the time this is over
Your hands will scribble of your past in unrecognizable caricatures
Your ink will run dry
Only I’ll have the proof of you
And but for my forethought, but for my need
But for my suffering walk
It’s clear you’d have been a vapor
That might just as well be the moon, there at the end of these miles
You, sending out SOS love signals, hoping I’ll find your gaze
I, the Major of some spacecraft crashed light years away
Will all this only be an imagined adventure, two souls, starstruck
I wonder how I’d look with the Sun on my face. Not the fast and deep flowing sunlight, who I long ago named Hope. But the actual Sun. Surely the truth and green of my eyes would shine. Surely I’d see my chin lifted ever so slightly higher. Surely I’d feel beautiful. Then, “Hope,” I could say, “move along.”
“What the bullet’s love
didn’t look like: Gratitude.”
-The Scar On My Heart
The white-washed picket fence has blown open again, inviting the varying voices that be
An opportunity, this open door, this moment, and I stick my snowy-white foot in its way
Ajar it will stay, for I’m bolder today and my eyes see the truth ‘neath the paint chipped away
Should any of self-proclaimed gods upon high
Be lying in wait for my feet to trip up
Be prowling as jackals for meat from my bones
Grow old you shall, ‘fore you find my will at play
Dementia and graves will be yours if you dare
Take me on for sport will you?
I cannot care
