Revival

I yearn for the freedom of the road,

Where the Airstream pumps the beat of my heart, 

The shadows of the landscape, 

Lights the caverns of serendipity, 

Rolling through its divine,

I feel it’s allure,

Taunting and insightful,

Its lips pursed stealing a kiss from my obedience.

Love is in the details, 

Hidden and coy,

But intense like the breath of God.

The sun serenades through the summit,

As the dusky sky calls to the nocturnal,

Boots cozied by the fire,

Releasing the stories it holds,

From the rambunctious of asphalt,

To the headiness of backwoods dirt,

Forgiveness drifts to where only the stars can see,

Loitering in contemplation, 

The moons winks in revival.


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Briars

I’ve spent months in daydreams,
Where the mountain brooks flow through timbers,
I longed for the briars to pierce my skin,
To know that I am alive with cadence,
Lullabied by the breath of morning,
Stirred by the reflective sighing dawn,
I came to know,
Men were made to be wild,
With heightened senses,
Erasing the hue of artificial smells,
As dew washes away the contempt of solitude,
I am free where only the eagles can see me,
Laid bare by winter’s afternoon,
Drifts of capes dances in the background of fire,
The wood burns as deep as my soul,
As my breath labors for a full moon,
I swear at daybreak,
For I wasn’t done drifting in dunes,
I search for gratitude in the tension of remembrance,
As the new day incubates, the cauldron of memories.

Photo by Catalin Dragu on Unsplash

Cachonne

The destiny of skies and objective ties,

My wrist have grown weaker by all means,

Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,

To horizons that fade with every tinge,

As a man’s skin hardens,

I clasp my hands in religious fervor,

As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,

Am I a man in spite of my weakness,

Or is that my respite?

Odysseus

I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus,
If my gait stood strong like a Trojan horse,
Deceptive, but a well planned opulence,
Lured by the sirens of my own perfection.

Before puberty, the squeak of my voice
Haunted me tirelessly and unafraid,
Longing to escape the burden of boyhood,
Masked by the tyranny of expectations,
Cursed by a conscious vanity:
When would I become a man?

My frailness became it’s own enemy,
Locked in a chasm of regret and allure,
Running towards validation,
Like a good infantryman towards gunfire,
The blaze of contempt for my own manhood,
Reduced me to a giant without the strength, might, or height,
As the sirens of conformity,
Drifted me to the shores of complacency.

As winter has gone on for far too long,
And the spring winds foreign from rusted chimes,
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus.

unsplash-logoCristina Gottardi

Annuals

I loved things that made my heart break,
Like annuals that bathe in the sun,
And withered away at the first frost,
I peeked my head outside the window,
To see if my friend would come back,
But dead leaves and snow marks its place,
I think of war as it has the same grace,
Those alluring moments that scares the hell out of us,
But continue to chase without a catch,
My lungs will never breath that deep again,
The sweat of my palms will never soak my gloves,
As metal meditation lulls the empty
Reservoir of youthful stupidity,
It’s cruel you know, to give young men that much life,
And cut it short with a plane ride home.

 

C130

Hurry up and wait,

While she flies overhead;

Our chariot to the promise land,

Sand shocked,

Tired eyes,

Feather laughter conceals 

Our eternity…
Drink more water,

Stomachs lust for temptations,

Backs to backs,

Brothers,

Different mothers,

Same DNA,

All waiting… 

Deplored 

I thought about,

What we’ve become, 

When soft lies become,

Subtle fun. 

One who yells loudest,

Has already won,

And the search for truth,

Is an amusing one.

We’ve grown distant,

in teams of sorts,

Enslaved by emotions,

Agendas,

And retorts,

Friends become enemies,

In a civil struggle,

For love, 

Acceptance,

Deflection from the lives we lead,

We plead for wars to cease,

While we fight ourselves in deplored streets,

Courage to dismiss,

And not to question,

Our own ideals,

Left uncontested. 

We fear the real,

For we must begin again,

The arduous path of discovery,

That has no goal to win.