She was a Society Girl

Sweater full of moistened canvas

Stuccoed despite apparent light bulb’s shine

Glowing still from embers hauled

Despite the light of Cupid’s torch, elated mirth soon doth falls 

In glass, trat she fears

Glossy straits comp laced with tears

As clocks conceal adjunct routes

To resurrection cove, she dreams about

Lounged back, cleft to tears

 Rejuvenated ampersands still in dread

O’er withered debate she so oft fed

While extensions shudder in their wait

 Bleeding time, rending haste

 For tides to turn the badgers heel

Into slippers forged in nostalgic reel

Strictly speaking to the lace concocts,

Sextants distance shall grow lost

In games, even purloiners grow weary from     

Where once recipes fresh and sweet

A maiden grows old and bleak

Without suitors to call or prey

She’s left faceless and afraid

As memories choose to fade

All Ill Be Gone

When a cloud hovers from above,

Wish it well, give it love,

It is your duty to provide the nudge,

For that cloud to swiftly pass,

Before its lining alters hue from grey to black,

Aisles of fading, years of deceit,

Confessionals empty this evening,

It’s not that I wish not to speak,

It’s not that I’ve no remorse and cannot grieve,

It’s just because repent is what my enemies expect of me,

Swirling waves, a magnetic lure pulls the soul,

Grasping throats in one hand,

A pain you feel, but do not understand,

A compression you know so well,

An ignorance, on which your mind,

So often lingers, so often dwells,

Amidst the children,

Out at play, each afternoon,

No worries, no cares,

Precious are the second then,

A pleasing rite, adults so unnoticeably lose passage from

Resolved we drop to knees; we chant expediently,” All ills be gone, first in front and then in back”

Scars From A Tablet

Naivety towards location

Instinctual drives reference the prototype

As the primary preoccupation, yet it should have recalled the productive pedagogue

Like a tourist caught in isolation, begging for reprieve,

Falling for routines ranging from Crucifixion to Nativity,

 A native never would have, an actor couldn’t know,

Each soldier, flamboyant and free, single file in unison,

Marching forward, stumbling sideways in search of, secrets in plain view,

Earthbound and elementary, jaded curiosity clouding the thoughts of the forsaken man,

A procedure without envy, awe necessary to remain under wraps,

 The Penitentiary of denial would be on high alert,

Tonight it appears an inmate gains a chance to prove his worth,

How and why this all transpired will not be addressed,

 It is information we’re certainly not privy to, 

And knowledge, in this case, would create a cancellation; result in the invasion of privacy,

For all those secrets buried deep; hidden treasure of the home,

Shake the specificity of design,

 It’s not as if, in this designated abnormality

A person of your stature would ever find something,

As the interwoven index fingers, the pressing of the palms,

Dangling in the open air, convection with conviction

An intimate connection with but one condition