Max, or Not

o zinnia azure

have i awaited

on this shore, forlorn

ebbing
in the fading flow

of fleeting sways
no more

shifting
slivered beams of light

adorned our flesh

with lips immured,

its passive adulation

kissed with scorn.

the lines did yearn

for tempered reason

dearth dividing
us, its wrath

though nothing
would forewarn

of weeping skies.

there we stood

the air, impending

propped on painted panels

as the precious
pretense
pooled
beneath thine eyes.

now was then
the past
conspired

thy petals
turned to frigid shades

assembled

in the midst
of Eden’s garden.

torn
between diverging dreams

two tenuous devices
tethered

drifting
from the lure
of looming argent.

olive juice
or elephant shoe

whichever is fine

because i
love you

i close my eyes
and see the stars
burn bright

like ghostly spires

summoning the scenes
soon cast
to thought

the wistful sear
of ceremony

fraught with seas
of sentiment

the present’s
mirrored presence

a mirage

the pin
pricks of the erstwhile
ways

we watched

awash with sorrow

whose poignancy

was spurned
and spent for naught

afforded
by the looming morrow

latent
with lament

as the pillow
wrests my head

to see us
off

the paradoxical nature
of existentiality
in the context
of how it relates
to the perception
of consciousness
experienced
by sentient beings
is far more parodic
than one could ever
fathom to confer.

which, is why

i prefer not to.

exist,
as it were

there is a fine line
between life and death

at least, there was
until you snorted it

threw your head back
winced in pain

as i exclaimed
“that’s NOT cocaine!”

~whatever…

still, i must report

the ochre ache
each day
arises

prodigal
in its apprisal

clement spires
accentuate

the framed inversions

set to sine

whose firmament
was forged in limbo

cast in curse

dispersed
through time

i guess
it was not all
a loss

at least
as long
as you got high

i saw the sky
succumb to gray

when last i held
my head up high

the storm was nigh

though stern
with pride

it washed away
my wistful sigh

and in its wake
a will awoke

whose end
devoid
spoke ire forthcoming

and to this day
the red sun, scorching

tends the toil
that whispers i

there isn’t any point

which is why
i’ve naught
to fall on

to run
me through

this star-bound cycle

and safely
see me
home

you know
you’re alone

when you walk
along seams

in a somatic suit
not fit
to be tied

swaddled up
by the scenes

blaring in the periphery

and all you can do
is stare

down at their feet

it is here

where you meet her

the mother
of earth

as a seed
she had sown

when the samhain sun set

and the darkness
arose

to a soul
disembarked

upon eden

this one goes out
to the loyal believers
in those of us
prone to fall
from the earth’s face

without the support
and forethought they bequeath us
our will to go on
would diminish
post haste

and though we may not always
properly thank them
in ways that would truly
convey how we feel

our unending gratitude
stays with us always
regardless of whether or not
it’s revealed

for even the smallest of gestures remain
a part of the tapestry
weaved by such memories

mitigating the duress of each day
and giving us comfort
within life’s infirmary