Wordle #282 Hiraeth

A raw overcast sky

hangs softly outside

of my insolent, unblinking window.

A milkshake of monochromes

and bald-faced satellites

march unseen

behind the ashen veil.

I can feel myself sinking

with every breath.

My thoughts are heavy and insistent.

My hands are caged birds

weakened by tension

and fragile as they pound

fruitlessly against my pillow.

No one but me

can hear the cracks

taking hold of my heart.

No one but me can hear

the terrible, taunting hiss

of my liquid pain released.

The stars

count my wishes.

Wishes that I will

someday follow

from one adage to another.

Wishes that must be forgotten

to reach fulfillment

because more often than not

I get in the way of myself.

I am not patient

the way nature is patient.

I would rather destroy

something than contemplate

the hours between

one moment and the next.

The space between us

feels especially solid,

it has fangs and claws

and if I let you in

too deeply

I know your absence

will consume me.

We will always have

the moon floating

like a pumice stone

on top of the water

by the lake.

The leafy hands

of a primal nation

extending towards

our bare legs

like needy children

as we spin in circles

from one end

of your unkempt yard

to the other.

As I sit here,

in a state of hiraeth

and mild panic

I wonder

if I really have what it takes

to belong to someone,

to have memories of someone,

to be at home with someone

and not get lost

between the words.


Wordle #58 “April 26, 2015″

Week 58

Your orphaned tongue

Rummages my frayed nerves,

A raven plucking

The marbled lenses

Of a cumbersome benediction.

Whatever I have left

Does not warrant visitation.

I drink of your notebooks

The flickers of hiraeth,

A sentiment that all misfits

Endow whatever their proximity.

I weave courage from the scraps

Of your overheard prayers

As an old woman wrestles her

Memories into symmetrical swatches.

Laughter only exacerbates my fear

I watch while you endeavor

From behind a plaster wall

Invisible against transgression

Idle and decompressed

Closer to death than even

The Reaper supposes.