mornings, where the moon

lingers in the sky

a little longer than it ought.


I imagine – a cry for attention

in the face of wanderers below.

or perhaps – a desire to see 

the happenings of the earth without the cover of night.


oh what horrors – never meant to be seen

cloaked in darkness

you, the moon, have witnessed

I suppose terrible love as well. 

for in darkness the human extreme, 

is realized. 


I wonder if you are disappointed,

at the bustle found in the light.


not much occurs here, 

the ones you see at night – 

and shake your head, 

pull back in shock,

lean forward with love –

they are quite normal here,

very – boring.

incredibly – distracted. 


here, mornings, where the moon lingers in the sky

and I sit gazing upon him,

a little longer than I ought. 

frosted breath.

shaking hands.

early mornings,

before the earth awakens.

alone with your heartbeat.


when the silence of the air,

is thick     –    almost    –


in its stillness.

i am home.



flowers grow in her soul

weeds threaten to choke her mind

growing through her veins

attacking her blood and beating heart


but flowers grow in her soul.



She walked with spring in her steps,

and fall in her hands.


Hope trailed from her.


Her face, bore marks of tilled soil,

Seeds ready to burst,

Into a garden.



You’ve been dug up 

And planted again.

Expected to grow  –  thrive  –

They wait for evidence

A bloom.

Their eyes won’t leave you,

Their words envelop you.

So you drain  –  every good part

And make a flower so perfect

   untouched, unblemished, innocent


Finally they remove their eyes –

Take away their words

Only in exchange for your bloom.