The Seed

       Left taken aback; the wind knocked out of me

As I back to sit, eyes searching, ticking, ticking

To comprehend.

You left.
You always had, left.

And I always waited, a fool bound.  Literal.
And as an Angel.

Smited, it has been another day,
With no words,
No refuse,     Nothing explained or apologized for,
Where I let you splinter my soul, as if to remain, even if only by shard.

When I buried you,
I failed to understand the concept of a seed.

But you became lost to me then
  containing the power only,
To peak back up and see me once more.

I know it was love now,
Because only love can withstand what you've done.
What you haven't.

I'd always simply wished that you would have just apologized.
That you would want to make me happy; that you would embrace our fall towards another sky, some where else.

The reality was different wasn't it?
I felt stripped by the time you were done with me.
Kicked, lost, hurt, abandoned.

Of course I buried you.

You broke the soil though.
And think I not, that you recognize me anymore.

I will always love you.
I can not tell if you know this, because our moments of truth revealed so much more than I'd learned to expect from you.

I had always simply wanted you to be nice.  Can't tell if you ever loved me.
And surely since so long ago,

You have stopped, haven't you?

Well?

Candlelight

The dissonance is a swamp of graves used for growing crops.

It is a world where the region is a lost one on any map, as mind points over  purpose and iniquity, classes and what-haves.

I forget how sad classical piano can sound, even when it is whimsical...
  No telling, if the sadness is mine, or shared by the notes, stumbling over themselves in rush for perfect placement. So smooth.
So loosening.
And grips, they unfold.

My sleep escapes me late into another night.  Nerves twitch my canine and myself.
My mind, flutters, like butterfly wings, against a wind pouring in on draft
Riding, coasting, crashing,
How the little winged thing
Surfs into me.

Hours of the night, a true hourglass, as time itself postulates to the mind and an AM dark hour kept by candlelight.
      Seconds are lost in hours, veils lift, and the cat in me, stays awake to watch the night crawlers walk about.

Ey, it is a late hour indeed, where words are sifted through like ancestors drafting Magna Carta's. I stay awake by iPhone screen, and type on technology.

A new candlelight.
A new Quill

A New Time.

The Dissonance of Graves