three poems from the past

originally written sometime in november of 2018

the masterpiece

The painter drapes the leaves with fire in autumn,
and come spring soaks the blossoms in blood.
He separates the smooth and scalding,
the crisp and piercing.
He distinguishes that which stings the tongue
from the softly stroking flavors.
Scattering all these across the canvas
so that they may lie silently.
He parts his lips but makes no sound.
The painting speaks through the vibrations.
Oscillating the soul and spirit, it creates noise.

---

shoebox

By day, piercing the darkness
a lone shaft of copper and bronze.
It is bitter, sour, forcing us to
cover our flesh
cowling in the corner.
Yet, as if awakened by the glare
the flecks of dust begin to dance,
prancing around the light.
Eventually, the festivities die
and the silence holds us hostage once more
until the night arrives,
and with it, a dash of quicksilver
leaking into view.
It caresses the skin, like a cold spoon
pressed against the cheek.
We remove the cloth which had bound us,
so that the pale beams
may raise every hair of the body.
And then
we begin to dance.

---

casted away

Through the stained lenses
I saw fading,
like the wisps of smoke
flowing out of extinguished
birthday candles.
I felt caressing,
like the fleeting beams
of a bleeding evening sun
lazily leaking through the blinds.
I heard whispering,
like a faltering breeze
murmuring through the reddened leaves,
a last memory of spring.
Wading into the lukewarm pool of syrup
dripping out of my punctured soul
I found,
and lost
you.