I light candles just to blow them out and watch the smoke rise. Lover of poetry.
The Compromise A place Between consciousness and guilt White-washed walls And ivory-tipped wings With bad intentions.
Breathsound Broken glass, frosted over Like ice, Shattering. Piercing Hollowed glory, Nestled in black Like gloved hands At a funeral. Rising cacophony Merging With Our Silent Muted Breathsound
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Morning Doves She's veiled by the Cobalt, velveteen Curtains And she overheard her Parents, pretending To write apology notes Insincere, And scripted. She heard them Blame their veins, Awash with liquor Or their daughter, 17, Wearing those sleeveless Tops, like this is a clue Laced, And woven in thread. She heard them say They were perched like Mourning doves And she thought they said Morning doves And with faltering breath Asked "Why, If they are Morning doves, Do they cry when they wake in the morning?"
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Winter's Wings Coarse hands, cupped around a butterfly, wings folded, wilted Like petals. The color of blush, against pale cheeks, skin stark, ashen Like ghosts.
