More tears on these empty pages...

I can only write about you so much
before every page is flooded with
"I love you"
"I miss you"
"Come home"
"Goodbye"

In this place of dank, dark cold
brought on by despondency,
misery of matters murky and old.

History of abuses buried deep,
with gentle fingers, he guides...
dimming lights, bidding me sleep.

Hearing his soft mellow tones,
I feel my consciousnesses drift
to a time of pubescent woes and moans.

His voice is the anchor tethering me
to past present and future,
where I find answers to be.

She is a perfumed breeze
swirling up to greet my seeking fingers,
in colors hues of soft pastels.

Pleasing to my senses,
her hypnotic scent lingers
silently permeating the air I breathe.

Although she is my captive,
somehow she bewitches me into believing
that I am her reason for breathing.

Witnessing her every movement,
I am absolutely lost by conceiving
daydreams constant and forever.

I stood at the museum wall
And gazed upon the paintings there.
Powerful strokes and mighty lines
Showing me what the artists share.

I stood as one frozen in time,
And tried to contact Van Gogh’s heart.
"Dearest Vincent, master fine,
You rewrote the world’s view on art.

Tell me why you turned your back on
The traditions, set and followed
By those the art world built upon.
Your works upset their rules, hallowed."

Dragon's breath tainted with gold
a piece of fair maid in his teeth.
Snoring lightly, blowing smoke rings
resembling holiday wreaths.

Green and bronze scales, so pretty
burnished by the sun,
glisten in the dawn of tomorrow
seeing his enemies run.

Awaken, continue your terror,
stretch your wings out and fly
Scorch the earth, make it ashes
seeing your enemy's cry

Black are the shadows of flight,
wings that quiver and float,
winging over the castle,
see the bridge down over the moat.

I see you there glowing,

like an angel in a darkened sky,

gentle as I ever seen.

I bow my head before your eyes.

But alas, you are sleeping,

And your eyes are closed.

It’s just a figment of my imagination,

you were there you really were.

I see no sense in what you are.

To me you are the most wonderful creature,

and maybe you truly are an angel,

Take your hate-filled rhetoric and hide under a rock with it.
We don't want you here
If you don't have a willingness to help build.
Take your emotional demolition derby elsewhere.
I will not drink the purple Kool-Aid
You offer so loudly.
I will not sip at your fountain of hate.
Until you can teach love,
You have no lesson to share.
Until you can share an uplifting message,
I will not hear your words.
True leaders do not destroy,
They construct good things for their followers.

My stomach turns
At the memory of loving you

I mistook the pain
For butterflies

Physically exhausted
Emotionally detached
Torn from my connection
My sacred communion
To some ethereal muse divine

Where the absence of words
has left me riddled with holes
dark and apathetic voids
aching to be smoothed over
patched and plastered
I replace with art

For words have become elusive
Feelings have not
In the silence of painting
I find respite
In the flowing water
brilliant pigments find life
within the sovereignty of
serenity and acceptance

"My Morticia, you're an ice-cold bitch,"
he thinks, unto himself.
"You don't believe my need for you,
you try to put me on the shelf."

From inside Morticia's head:

"We've so few that pass this way,
perhaps no one comes for years,
please dear one, we'll be good,"
in little sister's voice of tears"

"Very well", she murmurs
slight put out at this.
She braces for his ardent hug,
his smoldering lips, up in a kiss