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The Voice Inside Me
An open window, leads to my soul
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I am the messenger that whispers in the night.
Speaking in your shadows as you lie awake,
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Weary consequence lies on the crest of my eyelids,
Resting on the lullaby of my supple breathing.
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There are questions I may never ask.
They frighten me in their answers.
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My words live not with me,
They are born on broken wings,
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Innocence encloses the sacred bundles,
Wrapped in my tired unconsciousness.
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Cold considerations of inconsequence
Drift haphazardly from cracked lips,
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What is the truth for the automatons of today?
Couch bound insignificance we dare not pray.
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Silently awakened by a fallow reality
Our lips brush in life’s fantasy;
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Downy feathers from Gabrielle’s wings
Spindrift soft frail white linen blankets
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Standing on top of this mountain;
We look to the valley floor below.
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Trapped in hollowed shadowy deception,
I wither in false cornered sealed moments,
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By tired light I awaken to begin the day
Brushing the dust of angel’s sleep away
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I feel the intense heat
Of your subtly cold heart;
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THRESHOLD: A Villanelle
Static movements of unfelt directions
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Unforgotten hindrances beset my ambiguous solitude
Threatening my passage from ill gained redemption
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I see him crouched by the side of the river
Can’t you see I want to be alone
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Drifted leafs collect in the shadows
like discarded memories fenced by cold winds.
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My Words are fallen: A Villanelle
Where are my words of faith and graced light
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Deception and pantomime crowd my life
Fill my moments will sorrow and strife
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Dry handed moments silently fall
Collapsing against a shadowed call
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Words
Scrawled and dragged
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In the river
I let fall my scattered desire
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Sorrow’s Sleep
I embrace the dark of Sorrow’s sleep
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Softened by insignificant windows of time
I let my body drift across broken marble halos
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Words fall on calloused ears
Bouncing against distrust
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Fully awake I cry for sleep
A momentary respite from the pain
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Autumn comes in detached leaf and falling blossom
Mixed with the detritus and compost of history’s references
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I turn my body over
Feeling the emptiness beside me
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Awake not the mind that torments my days
Filling my heart with darkened waves of cold salted water
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Black orchids stain the skin under my feet
Etched by wood and stone strewn in my path
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I am not alone in this sepia toned garden of lilted flowers and brushed pastels
That play against the canvas of my life to be painted with new brushstrokes.
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Left to fend the ghosts and frailties of guided corruptions,
In tears of moss and lichen.
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In my heart there rests a gentle flower
Its petals are soft and sweetly scented
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I touched a trembling finger against my moistened lips,
Tracing the lines that were brushed by your tongue,
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