morning, mourning me,
trapped inside discrepancy;
once formed solidly,
now accustomed volatility.

this day’s gonna break —
exploring new paths to take;
light up the way,
castaway shaded charade.

wield warmth
inside cascading sun;
summoned to succumb,
forgiveness for everyone.

I’m open to being closed;
like a day lily that froze
underneath night’s repose.

I’m open to being closed;
like a hand that only knows
the clinched fist of knockout blows.

I’m open to being closed;
like a long sought out book
whose secrets remain to be known.

I’m open to being closed;
like a quiet monk that turns
meditations on poetry into prose.

I’m open to being closed;
like an investigation of the heart
whose case is open, shut… closed.

I’m a
moonbeam
in the dark,
I got stardust
in my heart.

I’m an
empath
full of light,
making waves
that splash
across the night.

I’m a
phantom
hidden by day,
I can make
you levitate
in a milky way.

I’m a
gravitational pull,
reflecting back
to make you
feel something
visceral.

Nathan Bedford Forrest
back from the dead;
raisin’ up an army
of born again inbreds.

Marching across the South,
wish it was Sherman instead;
army drawing bloodlines
to empower red-hat whiteheads.

Raise up in fists
or democracy’s dead;
Constitution cutting floor,
Three-fifths of which we already shred.

inside the breezy lull,
walk away the painful;
nothing yet to collapse
one step away —
relapse.

head above
head held high;
thoughts pressed
across evening sky.

dear love,
I’m not alone;
forwarded a life
all my own.

the spirit’s here,
the spirit left —
exhale, my final breath.

there’s a private fury
they ask you to bury,
lest you forget.

in an act of favor curry,
they flatter every worry
until you become asset.

employ guilt in a hurry,
once you become jury
and question all of it.

your center bent blurry,
when truth scurries
past a mind that forgets.

the mission
of the tactician,
to avoid
ideas attrition,
reaches limits
of ambition
once faced
with derision.

the tactician’s
failed volition,
through own
inept admission,
erupts in
endless division
amid constant
condescension.

when afforded
deposition,
the tactician’s
backtrack tact
heads back
to original
insistance,
always steadfast
in mission,
“it’s really not
my decision.”