Forlorn, Forgotten

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The heart is in the hand,

the ladles in spoon

dripping,

begging, for

anything more

than a simplified version of hope

Fault belies the figment

of solitary contention

Fact betrays with its magnetic lustfulness

the pheromone’s however, grow

lost when companioned by distrust’s harvest

Failure sires grief

A grief begetting autonomy, one

of sorrowful denouncement, where

streams of guilt forever pervade those

crescendos that your secrets keep—

Blissful repression, questing amongst

the pungent pittance of gnostic glaze,

purveying the articulations buried deep,

into A place, further than that of sleep

Archaeology of the symptoms and the broken

accord, traversing diamonds not quite, fully self-absorbed—

abandoned by the vast rapids flow, with but one paddle and

A stream so cruel

Built within every longing moment, there, betwixt the

now and those faded memories when time still favored

the moments yet to come, while still

existing was a sense of where

Stop on over to D'Verse, where every Tuesday we have the greatest Poetry Celebration on the planet.  Yep, Open Link Night opens at 3pm and runs throughout the night.  With so many talented poets showing up each and every week, you just have to head on over and see what's being shared at the pub, always a great time.

Forlorn and Facing Reconfiguration

I withdrew my efforts months before months before

I am blank canvas, abandoned like the empty mine—still 

possessing gold; seemingly, knowledge only I care to know

dust settles and design forms an abstractive patterning—yet, all assurances I can now provide are but trivial, unintentional; only residue, coincidentally shed upon, what once was the bark of pine

I rescinded perseverance, long before long seemed forever far

I am the rusted chain; I am the captive’s scar—so antiquated, a reminder of a past so effortlessly shunned away

dampness stirs alive the cloth—a cloth cares not for futures, of consequence or repercussion; it only does what you ask it to, be that wiping fresh a dirtied slate or offering moisture to an arid face.

I disassembled my entirety, part before piece before part and piece

I am mechanical; calculative—dividing out the old and worn, a sum of parts infused as new, fully aware, some slivers can never be removed.