a grasshopper leaps from a soaken branch only to
slip from the dewy tresses of a puddled leaf
while smoke pillows and lofts quietly into the air
edging around raindrops and bending
to sudden gusts of impetuous wind
even the clouds cannot obscure the beauty
in sun hidden, soaken days
although the sky forgives the clouds
for masking its infinite glory
clouds bind the soulless sun
and create strange sunny sunless days,
while our minds torture our hearts with
simple girlish desires which morph
into easy obsessions.
my heart melts into a plastic cup
just to be drunken up again and spat
over the pages of an open journal,
as happy feelings seep out my open ears
with the dread of dismay approaching.
often, i lose myself
to the vectored clench within my chest,
and for a moment,
the rest of the world disappears within shrouds of preternatural nihilism.
when the nothingness grows too loud for my languished lungs to envelop,
i forget where i am,
and i forget the moment.
my thoughts tumble violently down the steps,
and before i can recollect them, clumsily,
i become displaced in time, and i am… reduced
to a numbingly petrified child, lost to the all-existing and -existent.
stricken with confused isolation,
a fleeting shiver of panic trembles to my frosted fingertips…
until a passing recognition returns me to where i was
just as quickly as space had stolen me.
on top a summered
elm, perched a small and soft-songed
swallow that sung just
as it could twitter,
melodic and full of joy.
burrowed beneath my
flightless bones laid an
envy of small and soft-songed
birds that could fly just
as well as they could
sing, yet seated in a glade
was i, who could not
sing – was i, who could
not fly or call to other
birds for care or for
company. was i,
who sat alone and could not,
but wanted to, love.