Dance Dance Reflection

Mirror, Mirror leaned against the wall,
See inside & show outside,
What is in a face.
Deliver unto me,
What it means to mean:
I have always loved you.

Share with me your garden, Eve,
Including your fruit not forbidden,
But familiar and fleeting,
An itch in an infant;s throat,
Fresh-born and screaming,
For home.
For you.

The sky drops smiling tears,
Shuddering with anticipation of a sighting,
Of reaching out:
yearning to touch
just for one
moment or less.
Dance with me,
Circled by a shower,
Not storming,
Like adoring fans,
Leapt from their seats,
To reflect even an ounce of you.

Mirrors, Mirrors falling from starlight,
See clearly & show sincerely,
What is in her face.
Deliver unto her,
A message from me and us:
You will always be loved.

MyTV

The static fades from the screen,
"Like a short term lover,
Gathering up her things."
And I'm caught watching:
Outward-angled,
Searching for a moment to latch onto,
A mirror-memory, silver with luck.
Hoping for a chance to reflect.
The amtrack of the noxious, amorous, envious, ingenuous simulacrums screeches by,
A pause but not an interruption:
Anticipated.
The second yet to be come to life,
Born of fear;
Fear fermented from futility.
Gaseous remnants interrupt concentration constantly,
Sulfury damnation seeping skyward with every step.
Night falls; broken.
Fleeting promise fades in flight from grasp,
Leaving me alone and thirsty in a desert:
Digging for a forgotten treasure under a new moon.
My pockets empty of excuses or explanations,
I walk towards exhaustion:
A physical fail-safe for fear-of-will,
My favorite lullaby.
Caressing my worries into not carelessness,
But careless-ness.
Day comes; breaking.
Scorching the earth beneath me,
Shaking me from my dream-made ladder.
Falling from the balcony of my own room,
Through the fuzzy snow into not consciousness,
but awakeness.
The static fades from the screen,
"Like a short term lover,
Gathering up her things."

Memory-Of Shall Not Be Confused With Remembering

This receipt-driven generation of germs,
Dabble in existence,
One amoebic toe in the tidepool,
With anxious step towards the spot;
Where angle-ness is present.
The it spot.
Where the light bestows import to the forgettable.
The son of the sun dances into frame,
Singing "Meaning is gleaned from the beaming and nothing more."
Before the clouds can intercede,
The wind whispers:
"Now.'
Snap.
The frame around the scene cracks,
Damming the river to catch the silvery Pisces:
Ripped from the reel before its time.
Aired out into a carbon copy of a timeless time,
Interrupted and removed from the time - line:
See : 'Never Happened'.
Better than an original,
Memories come in plastic:
Spill-proof and shareable.
Conveniently squareable,
Derived meaning crowdsource-able,
With impressions unremarkable,
Methuselah shouts "Laughable",
For the Timeless,
Remembering is impossible.

Emotional Alchemist

Take this flame,
Snuff it out but almost,
For the fighting flame is nature's Arc de Triomphe :
A testament towards burning tenacity of the human faculty.
If you take a moment,
To stare at the shadows,
Dancing outward from the burning dead-forgotten vessel,
You can see rage-flame fading,
Dissipating vehemence with distance from the warm womb,
Transforming and contorting,
Turning tides,
Within the same breath, from fighting back the shadows,
The dedication of the human spirit flame fading,
Turning against the light-blooded allies,
This. Is. War.
A war that never changes,
battles that never end in a victor,
Only multiple losers,
Some of which have priests charlatans convincing enough to herald victory,
Albeit fading,
The high of conquest flickering,
Another tongue into the dark,
Extinguished by the natural order,
Put out by time and time again.
Grab the hot heat,
The fire from the dragon's belly that flees it's mother,
Seeking refuge in the darkness it does not know,
And give it a home.
Hold it close;
Contain the sacrament and hold it close to the holy host,
For Prometheus would roll over in his grave eternal torment,
If he came to know we had re-gifted his sacrifice.
The flame is the the light that keeps the shadows of the empty indifference,
Our whore of a Mother Nature at bay.
It is my charge,
To take this ephemeral snapshot and deliver it,
Unto my peers, transformed:
No longer a wasted resource, weaponized,
But preserved, purified.
Our Hope, our Light.
Probably our undoing,
But better at our own hands.