Departures (Blackbirds)

This comfortable place where I sit perched… is not my home… and feels all too familiar.

The warmth of the thoughts we share…

Are only what they are… thoughts… and not things that we actually have.

Still we covet them as our own, without regard to the other’s rights to hold onto them… We are thieves of the night…

And as time keeps ticking…  the night is bound to end and I have a long way to travel before daybreak… yet I cannot help but continue to sing song, knowing that you know why caged birds sing…

Songs of being hypnotized without exchanging a single glance, of intoxication minus wine and glass, of passion without so much as a touch of the lips…

We packed light to come so far and have the weight of years on our souls… that when we attempt to fly away, we only make it so far because we break our wings…

And it breaks my heart…

That I can still see you from the short distance traveled, so I come back knowing that when my wings heal once again…

I will have to fly away to the same distance I was before…

Before they break again…

Just before the light of day…

And throughout the day I will endure thoughts of you… How beautiful you are even when you’re broken… and as much as it pains me to say it… come the next night I will walk away to a safe distance and from there fly away…

Leaving the night deafened and still…

 

 

 

 

 

Carillons à Musique (Silence)

The world rages on… though you needn’t fear…

Hush…

What I hear shall not fall upon you… but the lullaby of my heart beating will resonate to yours… providing the only reason you will ever find tears, that do not come from pain…

Speak not…

For there is not a single word that need pass between us, while my arms hold you close that could even begin to describe what I wish for you to know…

Feel…

The water from my eyes that are extracted from the very center of my unselfishness (… you are so beautiful…) and let them wash you over, but never away….

I am yours… you are mine…

Forever I will love you…

 

 

Writer’s Block

Waiting for words to find me… I sit still, allowing my thoughts to race…

Competing for the ultimate prize of “the point of inspiration”… but my carefree mind wanders, switching worlds randomly so the paths of words to the motioning of  my wrists to which I write them is indirect…

Yet I compose myself by whispering compose yourself and then reply with notes that are the pieces of the chords struck within me…

What falls to the page and to the screen sometimes even shocks me…

And I am shown often what I did not even know about myself that is imbedded in my soul whenever I give back to my soul instead of constantly asking of it…

Supple (Midnights In Song)

Like the final notes at the end of a piano solo…

The sun sets and ends the day, leaving behind a burning ember against my iris…

Breathtaking…

In an attempt to capture the sight using sound in order to press song into the night and evoke the light of day, I set a record to play because I can’t play like Cole Porter…

And with my hands not busy I am free to hold your attention…

A suspension in time in a dimension designed in the willing to be formed by the air that is absent between us and shared breaths that syncopate…

Dying in the night…

Bridging moments in the darkness until morning…

Breathe deep and exhale…

Feel within you… that your heart is always yours and what you see may steal it…

But what you feel is undeniable…