Far Far Away

I'm dreaming of a land far far away,

in a place under the red sun,

sleepless nights with palms holding on to days,

recalling how I found this one,

I've dreamed of this place frequently,

for it's a repose I seek,

I've whispered her name constantly,

for it's a love she let's me peek,

Too long till our lips mimic our hearts,

too distant her smile fades under seas,

won't the heaven's bridge any gap we're a part?

can we possible live without our pleas?

Wide-eyed I stare through the cooling night,

intensely vigor about my chests' beat,

I know not a pain like this fight,

for it's at every step of my feet,

when the snow falls I'll grow wings and fly back to her nest,

I hope the warmth I remember will still be there waiting and at rest.

Insane

Dribbling letters fumbling at my feet,

allow this light to dim slowly,

supine fishing for photo's of abroad,

rushes of heat so I close my eyes,

I'm not satisfied until I feel your touch.

Simple

Etch into my space,

and allow our palms to grind,

walk at my hearts pace,

in another world we're destined to find.

After Midnight

I'm not afraid of your dark, no,

it's those dancing shadows crying like monkeys,

I tug at my shirt, creeping,

soft steam swirls off the the damp alley,

the brick stifles my vision as rats scamper at my feet,

I've had this dream before, and it ends the same,

a car speeds by while my feet sink further,

deeper screams and grip at my legs,

I scratch and claw at the dense walls,

I've had this dream before,

my waist is submerged, a cool chill shakes my spine,

I've been here,

I can't feel my lower half,

strangers laugh and murmur off in the distance,

my voice is a whisper no matter my pitch,

I always wake up,

it's over my eyes as my finger tips

reach for the stars

just out of reach.

101

The baked Sun bloats the polluted streets
and that zooming and coming and going
never let's the tired sleep.

She lies sunken in a trance,
huddled like a C willingly
offering her hand.

I stand frozen watching the outside from above,
heart screeching with anxiety,
since the perch is disappearing
beneath me.

The Open

Two weeks walking on top toes

suppose the spectators become restless

trapped in a lousy boat

moats keep blades from reaching throats

but that western air still guides through

blue crisp skies hidden by murky grey brewing

about to collapse

pieces glittering and chiming

change scatter from holes in pockets

and hands clinging drunkenly

no me ho die tries to swindle the mind

so polite for strangers

and clean as a medical tent

went there and back

took more than a three day trail

snails may run faster

but they don't enjoy the scene as much.