Wanderlust
I have spent my life
spinning on my heels
from door to doorway,
from life to life
from desert to ocean,
from heart to mind;
And dancing on the tree tops with the breeze
I know if I spin fast enough
The dust will not settle on me.
4 am Text Poetry
I woke up entirely too early this morning. I have a poem to show for it. My day might just be complete even before it begins. I'm breaking rules.
Dawn Breaking
today, i watched the dawn break through a rip in the sky, and thought about the leaves turning color, falling with a soft scrape, tearing slowly, speaking last words at their brightest in life, and i saw myself turning as they did and saw myself playing in the puddles by the trees, not wanting to turn to brown before i had lived.
Fighting with Ghosts
Why do memories linger
like shadows, or a fog, rather?
Thick and opaque
and soft to the touch
but quickly becoming
wisps of air when I try
to hold them?
They're almost invisible, you know.
Almost without texture,
but still somehow abrasive.
And always dense. Always
around. Never lifting or fading to let the light in.
They linger like you do,
in the creases of my couch,
or in the folds of my sheets.
You linger still in the warmth
of the dying fire
and in my cold fingers
wrapped around a cup of coffee.
Why, tell me, do you linger?
When you know I cannot live
on memories alone.
