Nothing but sleep
keeps me from you
when dark dreams land
in fields of no return
and only you
can fight the winds
and rip old wounds
Where else can lashes fold
like flowers in winter;
the way stars
hang the moon.
You said due to our difficult circumstances,
if I should ever forget your eyes and how they
hold your heart within them when you look
at me, I should remember that first day in a
crowded room, when we were completely
alone, or the first time you ran your fingers
across my cheek and wandered to petaled
places and back so gently that I felt feathers
like the ones that adorn the wings I bear. You
said if you ever fall short, to whisper before we
sleep like we always do, laughing and remind
you, but how can I when your love never fades
from those brown eyes that always melt mine.
I wonder if this is how an artist feels
stammering in colors that dissipate
staring at a blank canvas, watching
stars flicker messages; Morse code,
dancers swirling skirts tiptoe beauty,
guitarists never missing a note, but,
here I am again, voiceless waiting on
sparks to fly like lovers in an interlude,
pitter patters of rain and wasted time.
To paint glitter into angels,
innocence into the skies,
and the skies
into the heaven we wished on stars
colors towering too high to reach
or the tip of Mont Blanc;
blush, on cheeks
warm enough to touch.
Raphael, you flourished every smile,
tears tarnished upon white steps,
with past transgressions.
On the back corner of moons,
I saw your wings, feathered, flying;
a barefoot Plato conducting Aristotle
on theories of the constellations;
sculptures of purity looking down
upon twenty-one reasons to weep
and not one of them is you.
I thought of them,
one by one
and wicked turned inside-out;
into a color I didn’t recognize.
The troubled, disturbed,
pain ridden humanity
labeled most likely to…
by the age of fifteen
by some notebook toting,
mouse in a cage expert
on statistics of specimens
and their environment.
So, go ahead,
pen a sonnet
for everyone who has a past.
Give them an excuse to detonate
and gain two minutes of fame
on the ten o’clock news
never stopping to consider
when the sun sets purple
and deep clandestine blue,
the simple fact
evil doesn’t always grow
from a seed.
Saturday night in the back of a taxicab
feels like home to those who scratch
and claw to make it to Monday when
traffic lights are an obstacle between
bread and butter and the next quick fix.
Summer sounds better when white
is the hardest place to hide. Come in,
they say when dark gets darker and
there is no place to run from yourself.
If I removed every brick and started over
building a perfect structure until my fingers bled;
wind blowing windows shut, borrowing stars-
catching fireflies when sunlight fades,
conduct a forest concerto to sing a lullaby
and lie silken feathers for your sleepy head,
would it matter, Daddy?
If I climbed that mountain all the way to a purple sky,
sprinkled golden stardust into your waiting hands,
would you love me, then?