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And, if all of our light
      would cease to shine.

I’d remember in dark
                  the moonrise
                            in the curve
                       of your elliptic eyes
on sinuous Autumn nights.

The harsh crunch     
as sepia leaves                 
juxtapose                                
with hazel softness
in your sight.

      Long lashes laid out
                         like black steps
                                   up to the stoop

.
                                     And, what I found
                              inside.                         
                      Your heart’s sigiled             
fluorescence.

                                 
        Your vigiled soul’s; entrance.

Crossed thresholds to our delight.

© poormansdreams

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My hidden
box.
Hides open without a lid on.

It’s mine and not Pandora’s. Yet, Her enshrined loss and ridicule sublime when outfoxed by Gods
is certainly something I’d find.
Hidden inside my forbidden box.
There’s fearful waves crashing crests fallen against anxious rocks.
There’s memoried slaves lashed and lest walled in by fated injustice rot.
All of which is ill-got like sharp pains
in my chest all found shot
in my gunslinging,
disheartened
box.

But, now has come the time
to castaway my hidden box
to smash it open fore and hind
against those anxious rocks
to shoot it smoking from my mind
with a marksman’s shot
to bid longlasting “may you never find me here again”
in the freed speech
of memoried slaves
from their recollective
walled in cage.

And, finally, put to rest in a vanquished, vanished grave
my far castaway,
gunslinging, forbidden, hidden
box.

© poormansdreams

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While, Fated Winter, waits
underneath
our tectonic plates.
The Hearts of Men
freeze over.

A Sun’s distaste
stuns through rays of teeth
a souped-sonic phrase;

“Thirsts and gusts impart a wend
toward fields rebirthed a-growing
by another giver: a mothering river
with lored creeks and surf now flowing
but first you must adopt to tend
a broader seed worth sowing…”

And, as ought to a Son let go and set below
man’s orange-red environ
“…then, a Daughter, with claret aglow,
will rosily reckon, a wet plateau.
Aft, Doomsday’s — bled horizon.”

© poormansdreams

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Slow, seeps the stone,
under a ripple,
on the water.
Washed afresh in foam,
where a trickle,
leaked an augur.

Prophecy, was cast. Spun grave,
in skipping pebbles,
prone to fall.
Like, long-established waves,
crash,
‘gainst steadfast rebels,
alas,
grown ashore.

Solace, only found, in each bounce,
that lonely lingered, ‘cross the lake.
Until, their mounds, were numbers count, on lowly fingers, born of fate.

© poormansdreams

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I remember everything: a curse of recollection.

Ingrained like sand grains
in my Cerebellum’s crevassed crevices.

Though, unfortunately,
without a holiday to a dark pit.

Where I can finally find some peace.

I don’t even try to conjure the memories.

They just appear.

A window,
screening glassy bygone events
that scream smashed panes.

The shards cut me
when I try to hold them in.

Scars on my body show my attempts
at subduing the wreckages.

I used to worry that not forgetting
would lead me to become permanently insane:
luckily for me it was only temporary.

But, I still yearn
to wash my brain at 90 degrees
in that spinning machine.

Ridding me
of the inky see-through stains
where the world had it’s way with me.

Nowadays,
I just revel in my survival:
the overriding evocation
that vanquishes all others.

A sword I drew
from my innermost scabbard
that became the foundation
of mettle within me.

My sharp renewal.

My thrusting lifeforce.

Always at my side.

Always coursing through me.

Like seppuku in reverse.

My imperfect jagged point that I chose.

I struck to be it and stuck to being..

..me

© poormansdreams

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