Smitten

Yep, it's true
I'm in love with the blue
And the pink and pastels
Float down, my muse

Keep me up late at night
Through the day in a haze
Of doting affection
Let belonging induce

Ripest peach on the tree
I'll claim you, I'll take you
Down the unbeaten path
Reminiscent and new

Yep, it's true

Bleak Days

Here is all that remains of the cosmic splatter

the universal truth, splashed light years ago from 

the violent overflow of messianic rivers, slowed down 

to rust; that sentimental strain but an inconvenient stain 

too mysterious for forensic sleuths, the human brain

to decipher.

Haunches grow tired as they lunch on cheek skin; too

thin to withstand the constant grinding of gears

but strong enough to know 

when to hang on for dearest

Life.

Poor fools do not wonder for there is no wonder

to behold. The sky turned dull, averted grey eyes

stray loose in their skulls, no stars left to guide

and no hiding behind robes; just skin and bones

exposed.