To

to envy the sorrows
that have comforts
*
to question the cares
of those who have
ones to save them
*
to search for a
smaller piece
of a gauzy dream
all glimmering with hope
one where joy
is still buoyant
and ignorant
of the troubles
that follow
***
to deny that a whimper
was heard where a
roar was thoroughly expected
*
to seek the words
that were heard in the heart
but were left unsaid
the air still silent
and stuck within
the breath
wishing to remain
inside
and end what all
it had started
***
and to forget what
hope there ever
was of returning
to that little
sad pit of denial

***

showtime

you.

 “yes…me” (pleading eyes) it’s showtime.

 what?

 “well I…” (eyes down, blush) slow down, more emotion

 yes?

 “I was helpless…I didn’t really know you for you until i went astray”

 do you really expect me to believe that?

 (nodding-nods) no.

 I thought…

 (meet eyes, peer within) check mate.

 No not again…I won’t be fooled

 “yes…i swear” (anguish, pitiful pleading anguish)
how dare he question?

 fine. what happened…happened

 (look down, stay still) quick wipe that smirk off

 so what now?

 “I….I need more time” (sigh) again, more defeated and sad (sigh)

 why do you need more time?

“hmmm….because.” (shut eyes. turn head. dismissed)

lies take time you know…

i miss the light

i see too much…

too sharply, strongly

too vividly, viciously

 

i miss the light…

not chemical, not electrical

not that cruel piercing imperfection revealing lit object.

why not some dimness…?

 

some  smoothness…

some dark to wrap around softly but not at all lessen…

some thing hidden…

some thing saved…

some thing for one to know and one to find out…

 

let the light be created,

 

let it slowly fade the light-maker

 

let it lick, slide, drip, drop, fall, fly and burn…

 

let it leave a trace as all living things do…

 

let it spark, grow, flame, flicker, falter…

 

let it live and as all, let it leave.

The line

i cut into a line
and pin it in grime
until it wriggles
into a squirmy wormy squiggle
i swirl it
i whirl it
and ream it
into coiled little
curlettes
i call it unfit
i drag it through grit
and meticulously
sink it in puddles of spit
i bleed it
i pleat it
i read it
i bead it…quite taut
and when it is nearly down to a speck of a dot
i take out my inky filled pot
and gently begin to feed it
because beyond all doubt
i simply
just simply
need it.