Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Paint the sky with hope, split the edge of light with a brushstroke, the horizon folds itself along your jawline close to me, like ink upon the skin between my shoulders my love, we sowed the seeds of our salvation unto exile, we packed down the dust of youth, we watered the beds with grief…

Your heart, conflicted, finds itself again besides the spinning gear, our fate drawn out behind a dung-beetle, unconcerned by those things which pull you forward that she left to yesterday, they multiply, mired in misery, curses, force fed, a hypocrite’s repose masked in righteousness   how long then, until, mature, they break free, threshed out,…

Imagination lost to the rust-steppes, fury catches in red and blue, Brother, where we once broke bread at your father’s table and traded dreams by the watershed, now, for our children’s sake, we curse each other in the sable light, we water the flowerbed with lives, come sunrise, righteousness cast aside, your faith, my philosophy,…

Baptized by sunlight, lean ever further into solitude, accompanied by the ghost of her smile atop the mountain, a crescent sliver swirling down the drainpipe, her perfume on your sheets like midnights desire, she who became your first of the last volumes preluding your hearts surrender

Architect of the silver spire, first of the last volumes behind you, shatter like Icarus to a star gather your pieces from the rust steppes, coat your scars in lead, forge your masks anew, for, when, at last, the Sumerian Circle lays broken upon your sacrificial stones and the end of days comes upon us,…

Four hours past ten fog scales the riverbank, winter snares another songbird My love, our rage, caged in November breaks its bindings, restrained no longer for traditions sake for ours is a domain of sorrow hand crafted and laid down between streetlights when, at last, your melody slips its gear and the collector of curses…

Wanderer far from your silver spire, past the exile lands, your pack lost to the river deafened by things broken and discarded they cling to you, a fist clenched, doubt and sorrow stitched upon your shoulders another step, another sliver another poem like a footprint behind you, your ephemeral record for the end of days…

Fisher of dreams, sow the field with your philosophy, posit longing amidst the clouds for when life suspends itself in the crook of your elbow and your line snares another nightmare, even those rapacious trembles that shake you unbidden from sleep, cannot this time deny, your ink-laden design

Granulated, the shape of a soul in flux, shaped and shaped again, weightless as surrender, triumphant in rebirth my friend, the color of your grief is no different than the color of my own, inflections treasure made manifest between the turbulent narrows of sorrow and rage for, when at last, the faithful exhaust their tolerance…