forget-your-religion

Since no one’s left to pick up the debris I’ll walk until my feet bleed out from glass And swallow any pride left remaining Till body’s swollen through from soullessness And on my red parade I’ll be the rain An acid burn, a deafening solace Thicker than water mulled with soot and time And something vague and utterly nameless Till from my ash I rise to cry aloud That sunshine’s worth the blood upon the ground.

As gold springs forth in bloom from leaf to leaf In drips and drabs all down the branches high, The summer days begin to fade and dry. Autumn is mother nature's form of grief. The buds that once emerged from bright new sheath Have crumpled, withered, fallen from the sky As if the world all round's begun to sigh And sob its woes down to the roots beneath. But soft, a stillness creeps into my bones Like hushed snow--cold hearts are melted deep As warmer winds from human comfort come, And Green calls forth in silken dulcet tones To waken all those souls still dead in sleep-- She whispers, "Wake; your life has just begun."

We all are still-born into a dead world. Such drudgery, this life we're forced to lead Where morning's born of night's last breath interred, Where all sing, "Happiness is all you need." The hymns we chant of earth and sky and sand Are selfish prayers from lips carved out of stone. I walk and talk and blink and wave my hands As if I know I will not die alone. So why, then, do we keep our stance upright? Why don't our backs stoop low from fear and doubt, Where in these bodies nursed on breath and sight It seems there's nothing left to sense about?    The answer hums on summer's dying breeze.    There's light so thick, it catches

While playing Truth or dare With you, I made A confession —seeing as I Don’t dare to Do much— I confessed That I am An open Book Without words Then dared You [you were always brave] To write on every one of my pages

You are made up of so many lines and curves, you told me once on a bed —Well, I am not the only one who exists solely through geometry simple silken symmetry like the lines that streak the evening sky, sometimes or the myriad green blades of grass that cling and reach and grab and grasp up to find themselves separate lives—no, you are just the same as I another collection of curves and lines that grace and gasp together, sewn in skin and hair and eyes drawn from drops of rain and you are nothing but this—I told you in one desperate breath, and all of our deep shadowed curves sloping downward into love-stai

i have this feeling, kind of like the feeling you get at the tip-top of a roller-coaster at the amusement park: that almost-sick mostly wonderful sensation in the pit of your stomach, whispering that whether you crash or fly, something that is absolutely stunning (are you ready?) maybe even ineffable (this is it) is about to happen, and nothing will --breathe deep--feel just like it (i will take your hand) ever again, never again

Georgia, born in the room with the time-specked walls has learned to love the way that green and blue and orange clash together, like the hammer of her great-great grandfather's pistol lying buried in some Confederate field