the shift

i tied the
devil to a tree.
summoned the starfish
from the sea.
the shift‘s a
sweet success.
i laid myself
at mortal’s rest.



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A Splinter Of Metaphor

The door is half-opened.

Light from the ceiling
Wanders on the floor.

I can see a shadow moving
Slowly like a crawling giant
Entity, incognito and unidentified.

I’m perplexed at the
Unknown force, traversing
in my thoughts.

Astonished at the
Sight that no one wants to see.

It’s a splinter of metaphor,
Alienated from
Everything that is common.

I’ve retreated from
Entering the chasm of
My own desire.

The door wants me there.

Stunned, my feet can’t walk.
Doubts invaded my head.
I can separate a dream
From danger.



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And Breaking

There’s a picture of sadness.
Desiring not to be haunted by eyes.
Wishing to be buried deeper in the ground.

You wake up one morning, feeling different.
Like a yesterday has been erased from
A memory sharper than a double-edged sword.

An inspiration becomes a staple food for
Someone who can’t afford a fancier meal.
It’s an irony of a king’s table at dinnertime.

Soaked in our dreams.
Never wanting to cut our slumber.
The vain of loving too much is unbearable.

To decide becoming an extraordinary is
Putting nails on our toes when failed.
The less we have is no delight.

And breaking a picture, and breaking a
Morning, and breaking an inspiration, and
Breaking a dream, and breaking an extraordinary.



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But Blah Blah Blah

same feet
that walked
the streets of Hanoi.

same hands
that wrote Sparrow Lines.

bard you
don’t mistrust.
But blah blah blah.



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my early dawn
in the morning.

ahead are

repeat of
serendipity is euphoric.



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Memories, Drowned In The Sea

Shy ravens in the air.
Quiet confidence speaks like a clanging bell.
Found a homage, this four-leaf clover.
Where grass and fields and the evergreen.
Smell of pines, of Hickory, of softwoods.
The fogs of winter’s dawn prance in tambourine.
Old dirt on the road, the marching funeral.
Death begins a history unknown.
Falling snowflakes, the darling crystals.
Yellow corns are cheery lanterns.
Folktales are told from one mouth to another.
Knights, knives, rough maladies of life.
Evenings hide more secrecy.
Memories, drowned in the sea.



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Our limbs in unison.
In the past. Nineteen months.
Built and tied.
We hurried love.
Disintegrated, fell apart.
We’re swept away by our own waves.
Losing me, losing you.
It’s a death and hell.



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