The Fallen

Can burnt bridges be rebuilt,

some might say it's so.

This time is lost 

and found again

and what of these years have passed -

we are not now 

what we were back then

even if we still might dream,

that those times before 

could come again

and bring us haunted things.

To haunt, to have, to die again,

to leave it all behind.

What of these strange

and broken strings

that bind and hold us fast?

What good could come

what bad befall

behind these bleeding eyes,

that closed for me 

a doorway to

before this now was then.

It isn't, it was, it should've been,

but it wasn't

so now it won't.

But "IT COULD" I scream!

It can I dream

be brought up from the ground,

this sooty bedrock,

these blackened beams

compacted over time,

washed hard with tears

and strong with years

reformed, refinished, refined.

Where I Hide...

Bury me in words,
a sarcophagus of sentences,
a deluge of dialogue,
to nourish my decomposition,
to nurture my restless creation.

Feed me the images
that startled my soul,
sunset skimming sky scars,
that free-flowing form
that precedes solidity. 

Those tendrils breathe my breath,
the atmosphere inhales me.
Cooled by the distant 
canvas of night,
my shimmering coals,
my blackened flames. 

The room between the floorboards
hasn't a key,
only neatly laid passageways,
saturated in empty space.

I have two floor plans
that co-exist,
blueprints for the same space,
though I always ask,
how can one place be two?

Amidst Zach's lost spoons
and Georgia's grasshopper jar
I place this small piece of the puzzle -
small but substantial.