Where Things Are

Wild Flower,

I lost my peace in a cold horizon,

In the trees with the grass and the never raging storm,

Where the breeze is more than a breeze, but a stone.

Wild Flower,

I kept my faith that you would follow me,

I searched the night, yet returned desolate.

Once again incurable and scathed.

My fallen ashes rise to the wind,

To grace you, my darling.

My barren fruit cannot serve its peak,

For the delicate seed has been misplaced,

And by its widowed misanthropy,

I will never retain again.

(I love this, I wrote it a while ago, but if you'd see the scenario in my head, you would love it too.)

Reality Running Amuck

“The Lengths”

By: M. H.

I twirled like a book,

Complacent and patient,

Waiting for your hands to smooth out my cover and read me.

Ribbons caressing satin,

Where to be the likes of you and I,

But as I lay for you to do your will with me,

Your hands came cold,

Your eyes unresponsive,

Just as I had dreaded before.

In the wake of morning,

I pressed my palm onto your chest,

My fingers waiting to tug you away,

While my lust wished to keep you raging,

Then my eyes closed,

And the ghost of you whispered “no”

And all I dreamed was aching.