the garden

golden gates
cut throat pools, precise
always hazy
reverie and drums
switchblade grass
clear waters, mirrors
sleeve drifts
the sunrise, reflections
losing focus
pouring more wine
sweet rhythms
trees, cherub fountains
soft sight
wondering, dreaming
hoping

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Waterlogged

forever daydreams of sleep
lusting for the inbetween
no safe haven in interactions.

toxicity of conversations
planting indeas inside you
slowly flooding all marrow.

waterlogged sense of self
heavy wet cardboard rotting
it sets in as roots grow.

esteem burning with infection
emotions wilting one by one
the bone idle death of you.

The Rolling Heart

My heart has hit the floor and it’s rolling,
violent waves inside moving forward and back,
my little dread filled ocean of red.

It is sinking within itself over and over,
reaching the bottom to float to the top,
to sink again while it escapes me.

If only it would break but for now it just cracks,
hair line fractures on its cold dead walls,
mapping its way over its veins.

Wishing it would just come home and flutter,
to quiver with excitement once more,
tickled from below by butterflies.