What Is In Riddles.

You said words are hard, they wrap around things unseen-
That distance lies in riddles, and things in between.
Nothing else will work out, quite well in the end.
This is the world we’ve been trying to mend.
I don’t know about the other ones, only we play pretend-
The flowers in the garden don’t want to grow,
Nothing is a seed that will be forced to overthrow.
I don’t understand the negativity or what we comprehend,
Why books have to have middles, or antiques are what we send-
Through the shadows, and the lies, and the hurt and goodbyes,
You tried to make me see something in a mystery.
I don’t want to go where you will go, except in time it will show,
And tomorrows are sorrows wrapped in a vine wrapped in misery.
You went to the ocean, and the ocean sent you home,
Your life was like something we weren’t even shown.
We fly like a flock of birds, and speak in sad rhymes,
The lion uses its wings to hear of unheard things.

Winds Exhausted.

In the dark, my eyes are bitter, the winter winds moan
And beat at glass windows.
Hunting season has come to pass-the October nights
Are chilly and the water falls into the well.
Darkness comes. Shadows heave in and out of dark
Lights, space is continual as a drum-
I left you alone late one night in August,
Your heart is temporal as doom. Some nights I dream
About Sylvia Plath, toiling and tossing in her
Feather bed, humming dead languages in my ear.
She left me here, alone, like Poe, alone, like birds,
They shelter me like words of wisdom and whisper dead
Things.
In the dark, I cannot rhyme worth a damn. I think about
Vermont and Kentucky, where my bitches reside,
I think about simple promises and things I have lost,
And use my thinking cap like they taught us in school.
No one admires me. Everyone says I am a faggot,
A black sheep, something to be used and thrown away.
No one in Europe hears me sighing, only the doves hear me
Crying.