A bown of Chili
Bowl of Chili. Dollop of sour cream. Cheddar cheese. Corn spoons! Good end to a shitty day.
Twilight and Fog
Twilight and fog
descending a powdered pond.
A frozen bird, wings still and silent
shivering shakes and cold cravings;
a frozen man, shivering,
shaking and cursing a foggy brain.
In winter months of dreaded darkness
beware beware beware:
going cold turkey
carry a pernicious penalty
as death looms in a twilight
– far beyond the fog.
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I hid my secrets,
like a childhood leaf
pressed between faded pages.
I hid my secrets
betwixt two untouched pages
numbered 41 and 42.
I hid my secrets
like the childhood cat that ran away
– never to be found
I hid my secrets in books I wrote,
my untouched leaves withering
– cat-less to the end
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No purpose, no path; strings attached to a dummy, neither brave nor nummy; a broomstick sweeps the endless fields; cows caw and fish fly:
chirp. chirp.
Cows caw, and fish fly.
Oink.
There is grandeur in the face of pork pies. Saucy plates left too cold. I would like to grab their attention and file a formal complaint. But NO … there are roadblocks and too much suffering: oink.
I find purpose in oven cleaning. Cutting ties. Coating a Self in cinnamon and almond, ground without additional spice. Cayenne is not a spice, it is life swimming through the skies
— cawing.
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Every heart a warm embrace, a hug on cold winter’s day. Every multiplication, duplication without deception a kiss from the warm lips of strangers. Every word of wisdom give wings to falling dreams, and parachutes to failing poets. Everything matters in the end, as long as it is sustained.
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Every heart a warm embrace, a hug on cold winter’s day. Every multiplication, duplication without deception a kiss from the warm lips of strangers. Every word of wisdom give wings to falling dreams, and parachutes to failing poets. Everything matters in the end, as long as it is sustained.
Copyright © 2021 @behind-the-veil-of-sanity / Hayden Veil
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the slow sound of a nocturnal sigh
a trial of the final breath,
the last descent of an undulated journey
taken in silence;
sibilant thoughts hushed,
a toboggan overturned,
whispering winter squalls
end the final journey.
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I can tell you why I’ve given up
let the daily debt accumulate.
I can tell you why I’ve given up
let the letters pile and words disperse.
I can tell you why I’ve given up
let my lazy friends fade to ghosts.
I can tell you why I’ve given up
let the pears die and rot alone.
I can tell you why I’ve given up
but you no longer care a whit
of me and mine and ancient history.
I can tell you why I’ve given up
,
— or choose to not.
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Bedroom secrets:
the bleak shadows of pure joy,
preparations of a broken bed
to merge the living with the dead;
folding, stretching, patting
the final resting place
for a day’s dirty deeds
done - - - — — — - - -
; without aid
as the morning broke
the thoughts turned pale
the ravishing daylight spoke
in riddled tongue of fear
or Fear, to remain hidden
covered in the night’s embrace
of doves and ducks bestowed.
Bedroom secrets:
to make a bed
one need only to awaken
fold, stretch and pat,
then await the setting sun
a bell’s toll summoning the living
to the bliss of a ready made bed,
heated yet dead.