The lone wolf
Now does not remember.
The eyes wandering
Inward like water
For a stalking word.
Simplicity is no longer,
Because of responsibility.
Nothing may change
Except their fear of the King,
The fear of vanity
Is a groundless winter.
Sting like a butterfly
Hurt like a bee
There is the springtime
Of my love
Into jealousy.
(Don’t worry. There may be some fish left in the sea!.)
I only feel romantic essence
When I’m glazing inward
Watching the startled butterflies.
Do I abandon them, or run away?
The beauty you are creating
Is in the beauty you cannot see.
Church bells, too. Who tripped?
Mothers of example
Fishnets of men
She should just
Throw herself
Into her pool
Again.
and then…
The Pitch of the Pits of the Peach
Liquid songs
Like the gargle of bells
Of a morning smoothie
It’s the pits
Of the peach
That for us
Are soothing.
How will I become without privacy?
Without headspace to review my own tragedy?
Empty space is not a malady.
It is a reprieve from insanity.
The good is done.
I’m still at home
With the secret.
Not such an ideal day off,
But I’m gonna keep it.
I’m inviting karma.
There is a break
This is how I celebrate
Taken, shaken
Up, up and around
The escape route
Is on my lawn chair,
My feet are riddled
With excitement
And wear
I feel relief coming
When it’s not there.
Empathy is Poetry 