Creation.

The water is livid as the grass.
We don’t dawdle; we let it pass.
Before us on the waves that swell;
And the horse that will not dwell;
Forever, we are adorned by witching hour;
The pan is rinsed, it will not scour.
Shadows are torn and rotten at the planks.
We don’t know what we feel-we let it stank.
The night shines down like a burned moon.
Destiny settles gently down; we rise in June,
And set upon flowers in their flower beds,
Waves wash gently over sea shell heads.
Dawn is an array of color-
Something along those lines we cannot sever forever.
Your eyes are intelligent; they cross tides like dreams.
And gently fold at the seams.
The cloth is hand-washed,
And is dipped in wine;
We can’t find sixteen bottles to let them shine.
Happiness is weathered against the water.
We fill the void, and cross sons and daughters,
The night is barren, we force against the season,
It won’t go past for any reason.

Poetic Reason.

I wish I was daring as a hat, the hat that is placed on
My head; the heart that beats like a sad remembrance of
Things wanted, things that are ashamed. I cannot know
What it is I have reflected, a genius of sorts, a prodigy
Of the mind. Sometimes,
I cry out in the lonely night, wishing for a spark of genius
To strike me; most of the time, there is nothing but memories,
Flitting like a butterfly in my mind. I try to wipe it away,
Try to hold it back, but there is nothing more than a sparrow
Pushing me forward, holding onto the rhythm of something
That is not as likely as it seems.
What happened to the beat of my heart? What happened to
The gentle understanding that comes with sharp rain?
I am not whole again, my heart does not beat steady.
In the night, I often see spirits that haunt me, like bitter reveries
In a night storm, my mother always in my mind.
Words are like poetry; they move me to enter the door,
Swinging in an arc.
Why do I like poetry? There is no rhyme or reason,
A simple day that gathers rain.