Windswept pt. 1

Infectious gusts delivered direction,
sailing.

From warm, southern coasts
of comfort and safety
to treacherous ice-piked banks
birthing uncertainty.
It seemed we could go anywhere.
We would go everywhere.

Soft airs exhaled by nature herself
on blemished cheeks
that extend with every savored breath,
every taste of tree bark hope
that we'd arrive shortly to land,
rosy quartz in my eyes.

Alternatively, choking
on freezing, bellowing realization
that the wind blows aimless.

Every place, I believed desired.
Every place, a destination,
though I never set foot on any shores,
only viewing them from my transport.

Thus, never grounded,
fearing decommission of my windmill self
that absolutely needs,
with all-consuming wrath,
even a slight breeze to automate.

Those were my feelings,
melded into belief.

Why, then, does the wind blow?
If it has intent, when?
And for whom?
How can I please it,
and by what means?

I already know where it's taken me,
but I now step off.

Listerine

Conventional mouth wash,
spearmint preference,
swishing it had never happened,
forgets that mourning breath.

Reaching where old brushes couldn't,
tidal waves of cleansing
gush over filled cavities,
a temporary fix of
freshening dignity.

Not returning to where one's been,
rather, masking what always is, though.

It's the food that leaves what rots your teeth,
and the brush that cleans it up.
It's the Listerine that fills what the brush missed,
but it's the water that never was
a culprit.

Of water,
erosion of your gnashing bones,
like a stream smoothing stone,
is the only plausible effect.

Rivers, a beautiful blemish anyway.

Cauldron

Leaves slowly caressing Northern winds,
flecked in the distance,
gently veiling a puppeteered cauldron
resting under a kind, Fall branch canopy.

Victim to a whisk of many disembodied, ethereal hands,
it sickly emits a verdant glow.

It's chill, but contents are hot;
a snowball filled with fire.

Beneath the soil it sits,
a network of retired roots,
Roman aqueducts,
wet only by the cauldron's sloshing, nauseous overspill,
shuddered out in spasm.

Drowning to the sound of a sitar,
heavy, smoke-suffocated agents are tossed in by those hands,
carelessly stewing despair.

Lofty branches have lost everything,
leaves all gone to the sugar-scented breeze
and the cauldron's no longer veiled,
not even gently.

Uncontainable boiling and fervent pressure are, over time, enough.
And as volcanoes erupt,
geysers outward the contents when they become too much.
And all the hands scatter,
except the tender palms propping it back up.

it's gonna reign

it's gonna reign
it's gonna pore
over thoughts, no control
it's whether
or not it might stop when undesirable

tidal waves, drizzles
or salty, salty oceans
egging on consumption
of these faulty, faulty potions

lonely motions

in dark tangles of seaweed
and you always thought dandelions were flowers

It's gonna rain.
It's gonna pour.
Over-thoughts, no control;
it's weather.
Or not. It only might stop when undesirable.
it's weather

shift

Candle fire tepid,
light it shines, a weapon.
Brink of brightness, breathless.

Soft, the warmth, it's gifted,
wishin' autumn distant.
Hush-ed hymns unhinge him.

Heavy-handed eyelids
beg to grasp the iris.
Sleep is stolen, silent

Tuesdays

leaning on the grey side of a two-way mirror 

swimming through a pool of lime-flavored jello 

someone's clipping their fucking nails in the library

Hollow Golems

Clay constructs,
lubricated, animated,
artificially aflame with life...
shrivel into a beige, dusty pursuit of re-saturation.

It's not tremors this time.

Voids fill,

they empty,

they empty, but you didn't miss out...

an arbitrary accomplishment?

This lethargic daze has become too comfortable.

Clay constructs,

arid, dormant,

they just need other clay constructs, really...

then they aren't that hollow.

Just a normal realization, I guess.