Once Young

So black was the sky once
that I could not count the mess of scarring stars,
and likened man's architectures to false reality
and likened God's clouds towards a vapid smile.
So red was the moon once
that I felt blue for a scarlet heart,
and likened my footprints to anonymous craters
and likened paid reflection to an emptier world.
So empty was space once
that I could not float too far,
and likened eerie asteroids to older brothers
and likened bottomless belts to warm river veins.
So far was time once,
that I assumed nothing more silent than the nothing in myself,
and likened words to a distorted slate of blankness
and likened him to a fire-breathing untouchable, never human.
So real was sleep once
that I could not feign wake,
and likened friends to welcoming monsters
and likened wholesome novels for a melted page.
So long ago, Long Ago was then, once
that I forgot to swallow the quietest memories,
where I likened ankle bracelets to elements of the night
where vagrant feet could but dream to fly.

Tartness of a Tarot

Luminous imagination, you might see, is the light in my eyes,
my smile tied to the airing stars over
the child's laundry dream,
cradling a revelation as big as our family's
delightful
Cherry pie.
And we were just at the table!
Oh,
to think
of it.
Sitting spoons told me of riches and forks
naively told me what was, or
Where to go. But the way was the
Plate of lonely red, lifting my spirits
for tartness of a tarot.
Unwilling to play, so foolish am I, sister says
and blue as a prairie windmill.
Medieval was my way then, and I can't
win (at chess) anymore
that hopes we
think like kings that always won, so marvelously,
their death.
Coffins bring an ashen peace soon to be wed
forever to the black, and what a questionable plague that gives us
all upon our sleep.

it is the process of
evaporating.

Evaporating

Outside, there came a light.
It was different light upon different light, that procured me to write of it, curiously expressing sunken cheeks like those on the desperately hollow. Those two-toned hands, hopelessly reaching for just one pen on the desk; the one that journeyed its way into some style, some openness that would soon be closed, spilling an evaporation. What was this dream, but to be empty, and where, but to be forgotten? Straws poked up from the ground, waving in the wind, and let her be known--she was talking through the children laughing, whilst my red nails played a painted song.
Its beams called for choosing, and let me be chosen for the time.