Midnight Hollow

I feel him rummage through my midnight hollow
fingering my heart,yet he will not follow.

His calloused hand move like hours
I blossom and bloom, but wilt like flowers.

I yearn for his stem, his waves, his oil,
then a part of his lips leads me to recoil.

I ache for touch, but my swells still clench,
I turn toward him, the reward of his wrench.

How is skin so familiar? Fingertips so strong?
This is what happens, when time turns for too long.

My pillowcase creases with the gnaw of my fist,
daylight is easy, but night can’t resist.

He is planted so deep, so deep in my dreams,
my body is taken by the past that screams.

His hands tick, with the minutes, away,
with the rise of the sun, my light starts to fade.

Deep in my screams, I run till I wallow
into the dark, my midnight hollow.


Some disagree, but doubt is anything but honest.
Honesty is kind, with soft feathers and
shear hands.
Doubt is a bone twister,
a body gripper that bounds muscles.
Honesty is a graceful night moon pouring
star flavored wine
over sense and vision.
I sip it.
I soak it through my layers, letting
it moisturize my dry husk.

Doubt is a dry fighter, black robed,
fist packed. It tugs. It pulls
ideas and shoves misgivings.
Doubt is a thundering cloud,
pounding immediacy under

We don’t move.
We don’t know movement in doubt.
We struggle to stand. We are children, wary
of ground.
We make cliffs out of green hillsides,
yellow, wispy flowers become the attackers.

We are the attacked.

The Bugs

Oh! The bugs are marching
my head, my head

my head
it’s latched on by

Thank God! Else it
would have shaken off
with rickety waves of
I am standing on

thousands of microscopic
bug legs
fashionably strutting
in hand crafted
black leather wedges

chewing up
the poise that carries me
through rocky terrain
cement bricks of

trampling my resplendent
of backbones.