tiny mysteries

redrawing lines
with white chalk
seven days to sprout a stalk
washed in a silent silk
fluidlike
becoming rain
this patterned flood
of again
keeps tired eyes
wide open
shedding skin
to a baseless core
empty is full of potential
and wading guilt
of yesterday's shoes
everything else
is carpe
in the new terms
of adjustment
no longer
insanely expecting
anyone
or anything
but rain
and ambrosia bones
where midnight
shadows smile
silently
where lions
become divine
and my heart
multiplies
and divides
to the pangs
of discovery

so sorry

Those two words echo like
 the booms of freedom overhead,
 leaving smoke in the air.
What was there?
WHAT WAS THERE?
 I taste it like cigar leftovers,
a staleness that keeps up clamor for more.
For love, for love, for love
Hello? hello?
The telephone pattern is broken,
just like we once were;
over the wasteland of disenchanted;
finding solace in crippled arms.
And there went stand-ins and comedy,
silly sheaths of dichotomy.
A pair with philosophy
and warm brilliance, cogniscience.
The streets fill with a cloud,
like the one that enraptured me for so many years.
You were there, balancing out the pain with spark.
Making an unexpected fire,
from ash.
But what can't last, won't.
Exhausted hands hold onto what they know.
And without ado, the grand finale hisses in grandeur,
lasting for hours, weeks, it seems.
Lighting up the night,
 celebrating the fight.
 Shadows revolve on spinning plates,
upheld by strength,
fallen by mouthfuls of weight.
Trivial washes away into clogged gutters,
too trapped to flow.
Get the rakes,
get the hoes,
 all tools to break the mold.
We don't mean to fuss
over such forgone refuse
but trifectas hang like a worn noose
oblong circles that cannot complete divinity.
 No master shall contain the other.
Sorries and bygones become helpless slaves
in the ocean of divided emotions and
we don't mean to say goodbye,
but we do.