itsrobenia

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed,

She turns and aches; her moves are always frail.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

At times, I praise her ears with some light jest,

But fears and shadows leave her face so pale.

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed.

I’d speak of lighter days to ease distress

To ease her mind when all her strength had failed.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

She fought against it, never acquiesced,

For in her death, she thinks that I will fail.

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed.

I search for her best gown and Sunday best,

Her kin are gone—they hate that she’s female.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

I hope her passing had no pain or stress;

I held on until her final exhale.

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

It creeps with breath of ice and biting cold.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

You mock the way I choose to dive and swim,

I wonder—was this fated and foretold?

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

My streams of thought are better now than him.

The whispers tempt a fear for me to hold.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

The icy world now seems darker and grim,

I still refuse to dive in the pinfold,

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

I will not sink, I only choose to swim,

Free will—a sudden sight I now behold.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long,

No longer caught between the drown and shore.

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

She walks to find what clarity may come.

On heavy days, we pray to raise her gaze.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

The ocean breeze removes every path,

Until her soles seek a different phase;

She walks to find what clarity may come.

Perhaps it would be best if she had stayed,

To beg for them to offer up their praise.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

Those bitter memories run on like film,

Of truths whose light refuses yet to fade.

She walks to find what clarity may come.

The sun winks down, and she rethinks its rays,

Which grants the kindest love she ever laid.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

Our answer became a whispered aid:

“Your path leads far beyond their twisted maze.”

She walks to find what clarity may come.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

the cold on her ear left an air of murmur,

conviction fuels fifteen steps bound

twists or turning, is too scared to hide rhythm.

a lovely place where warm wears do call home,

but this thing despair beats faith in her dream—

it pains until she’s weak with tears.

in time, we hope she learns to mind her tears,

to quiet—that’s the inhale of breath, like murmur.

please keep those needs tethered to a childish dream,

allow reality to comfort wants that bound

her to the sunset duties with loose ships at home.

yes, up and down and around they find that sweet rhythm.

that fear is so frail; i know she’ll find a new rhythm.

as my mind clears, my watchful eye peers upon sad tears,

which leaves me as still as stone—i mean, i have a home.

personally, i’m glad it’s finally silent from her murmur,

now that I am finally free to take without bounds.

i mean, i always felt like she was trying to live my dream.

flower petal, rose-gold design had a sheen like my dream.

a shaky twist upon my wrist gave me rhythm.

well, it’s not my fault she never kept in bound.

at least i gave a pat and a napkin for those tears.

it may be too easy, but when i told—it was only a murmur—

she did it to herself, maybe it’s sad to have no home.

so, i lean in—it’s not my business, but i’m welcome at home.

i have all the keys to follow my dream.

i’m ahead; she’s upset, but she better keep it to a murmur.

it was a little sad how shame kept her bound.

‘it’s accountability, not your fragility,’ so hold your tears.

of course, i watched with no care—i stay true to my rhythm.

everything done was meant to end her rhythm.

she was sad; we cared enough to call home.

it’s not what she thinks—we wanted to spare her tears.

okay, i’ll be fair, i wasn’t liking her little dream.

i’m good with my archetype—it keeps me bound,

on the ground, where i keep an ear out for her murmur.

i try to do what’s best and stop their murmurs; i respond in a hum with no rhythm.

i have been bound to never speak of her home.

i just hope that maybe one day that dream may spare her tears.

Will that time return to me? A hopeful wish

Seconds move forward

The chaos holds no purpose.

I find that only my reflection stays still.

That hollow feeling tempts death.

Time, please, how about a surprise?

A flash of light reveals the truth—the surprise.

Wait, I don’t think I want that wish

Wallowing in the dark brings only death.

Yet, I am used to the pain of a reality that never moves forward.

That old perception kept me still.

A life of deception has no purpose.

What was my life worth? What was my purpose?

Life never changes; it only suffers. It won’t be a surprise.

Though at times, I would stand behind the camera, frozen still

Hoping to produce an image I could look back on, but it was another hopeless wish.

For a life that moves forward

So, I sat and waited for my timely death.

I was told to practice ‘self-compassion,’ but an unworthy life is affirmed by death.

‘Since we all have it,’ I reply, ‘where is my purpose?’

I’ve neglected my garden. I only hold dead seeds with no way forward.

‘A seed must die to grow honey,’ they say. I didn’t know…another surprise.

I was nothing. I had nothing, not even a wish.

But fear took over every time I tried, holding those pills still.

With shaky hands, I looked back at that reflection and questioned, ‘Alive…still?’

I close my eyes. Why won’t I disappear? Life, punish me with death!

No light, no love, no peace, not even a wish.

A lost broken purpose

What a cruel surprise

Of course, I thought there was no way forward.

But when I took pills, nothing happened. Life moved forward.

I figured it was time to listen and stay still.

Each beep came as a sudden surprise.

Then it was on to the bug house, but there was no death.

Only time for a new quest: The pursuit of my life’s purpose.

Is it possible to do a callback on a wish?

I no longer need a surprise. My life has moved forward.

God granted my wish. I have now found peace in being still.

That glimpse at death showed me my purpose.

The shadows now provide mystique,

a place to hide from their critique,

though life remains unpicturesque.

Perform for none, show no respect

for those who judge what they reject—

So walk that path alone—it’s perfect,

for a free spirit made unique.

My favorite dream you will protect:

that solitude will not neglect

the parts of me they’d dissect—

preserved until we’re picturesque.

it creeps up in the aftermath of fact

face duck with hands that like to quack

the perceived white dove

is a masked artifact

and their pained-up

paint dove

with their life

which hides their scam

I dream up how I

can hide myself

in the green grass

with the ants

and bees

who hang below

the tire swing

but then I wake up

grateful as a sin

yet they’re hateful,

and it’s sad to see

entitlement

never leaves unripe

beings.

yet they set their

sights on me

as if my life

is their job

with three yeses

on Indeed:

sailor

servant

supporter.

they’re older but

still need a mother.

But at the same

time, manage

the mother

in the fantasy

where I am

the mother.

I wonder

with a flip of the coin—

the johnny jumper,

or the overseer?

oh, and I can’t forget

the owner.

but none

of them

motherfuckers

is getting—

my number.

I took ten knives

out my back

and put it in

their hands.

With a smile

I said,

“Nah, you right,

I understand.”

Now show me

how you gon

be…

Wait—no,

I walked away.

I found

true sight in

Green.

I never knew

that earth

could be

so welcoming

to a sad thing.

But then it turned

and burned

and patched

my hurts

into wounds with

root bandages

from the earth.

At night, the stars aligned

to hug the moon,

whose figure boo

shake paved the way

to a pebble

by the lake,

who invites my aches.

With time, and

sleep, and ease

they barely ache

and never more do they quake,

for the roots fasten

on to support

my wake.

After pain it comes

Head down, legs closed, elbows tucked

Then you numb, then you go numb

Healing pain becomes

Head up, legs posed, elbows out

Then it’s fuck this shit, I’m done

I got up anyway

It was my little sway that showed

How weak knees give away

Large returns that may reload

To avoid more delays

That will shake the sad, stray fat toad

‘Till he sees better days

I got up anyway, composed

The moment I picked

up my pen

I let chance end

Good intentions

I left dead

There is no one day

in the future

Or we may cross

paths again

Now I make it

all happen

Luck, power, drive,

And opportunity

The hate? It’s

just a tornado

I’m a seasoned

survivor

I already know—

bathtub or the bunker

The wind blows

until it goes

But my life? It’s

the ocean

I used to let them

float, sink, or swim

Now, I churn the sand

So, they gotta live

in the air

And move on from

following

To become poor little

Big Brothers

Who bow their heads

and tune their ears

What will they do

based on what they hear?

Nothing, just harass

with their favorite thrill

called fear

Proud apathetic liars

But it isn’t deceit—

Like destiny they

were written

To try to play

me

Now I push my pen

and 26′ is the horse

I figure I sit back

and enjoy the year

With my favorite

beer of choice.

for a while it ticks alone

the pebble now made known target

came for its final capstone—

a flip within its zone market

with impact like cyclones

there’s no need to atone—incarnate

your victory milestone

they’ll carve your name in stone sprockets

The caretaker, the inner compass dove,

Since peace arrived, a current flows within,

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

The silence pierces through the gentle breeze,

Each turning point reveals a way to grin.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove.

The depths below now offer up their keys,

A steady pulse returns through dried-up skin.

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

Time slowly bends to match your love’s decrees,

Old habits shift and teach the heart to spin.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove.

She tends the wounds that time forgot to ease,

Your guidance comes in time to help her win.

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

New breath arrives where panic used to seize,

What once was fixed now learns how to begin.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove,

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

The air came as a shock.

I watch it blind the dock, the shape

Moved in tune with its fate.

The turn, the figure eight—shakes

Them till they start to quake

For the quiet, daybreak against

The pillars of the bay.

Sun, please send it away—I’ll stay.

Confuddled, confused, constrained—no one can know,

Beep-beep, a squeak—no words that I pronounce.

I watch the bitter seeds of silence grow,

And feel the weight of every heavy ounce.

My best is buried deep within the dirt,

I’m trapped upon this worn and dirty couch.

The static is a stain upon my shirt,

The truth is hidden in a bitter slouch.

I pray for moments when my heart will bloom,

Though I am seated in the warming crowd.

I push the panic from this narrow room,

Until the inner whisper turns too loud.

I refuse to rest until I confess

About the true story—only I attest.

The iron hum-drum stall

Against the wall of damp fatigue

The sweating, slickered siege

Where elbows preach for hollow space

A pulse, a ragged pace

A shifting case of sub-way grit

The boom-box lightning hit

A “Show-Time” split of gravity

The dancer’s flying knee

Will strike the roof to earn a fee

A muttered, garbled plea

From speakers we can hardly trust

The muffled, hidden gust

Of brake-pad dust and crack-led tones

The sudden, hollow groans

When Lefferts owns the blue-line bend

A ghost-track, bitter end

To back-step, mend, and catch the surge

The railway lines converge

On timbered edge and boardwalk slats

Past stray-dog beach-front cats

To leave the slats for sinking sand

The salt-white, wind-blown day

To face the sway of endless blue

An armored, ancient shell

To brave the swell of surge and storm

A primal, rusted form

To find the shore and start anew

Bless the lions who were told no.

Bless the lions who turned their no into teeth.

Bless the scratch, the claw, the white-eyed hunt.

They feed on insecurity.

They feed on insecurity.

They feed until the insecurity is them.

Watch the man who catalogs his losses,

who keeps a ledger of every slight,

every door that closed, every seat he did not get,

every woman who said no, every job that went

to someone less deserving, someone

who didn’t earn it like he would have earned it,

someone who stole what should have been his birthright.

Watch him build an altar to his grievance,

watch him pray there daily, watch him

polish every injustice until it gleams,

until the collection becomes his identity,

until he cannot tell the difference

between who he is and what was done to him.

Watch him overflow with his own politics—

not ideology but arithmetic,

the careful calculation of what he’s owed

by the world, by women, by the universe itself.

Watch him drown in the debt he believes

is waiting, perpetually unpaid,

growing interest in the dark.

Watch him grow claws where his hands used to be.

Watch him practice tearing in the mirror.

Watch him forget he ever touched with tenderness,

forget he ever held anything

he didn’t want to crush or keep or conquer.

Watch the transformation from man to predator,

from human to hunger with a human face.

The ballot was a door.

They said it opened for everyone—

one person, one voice, one chance to choose.

But when the door refused to swing their way,

when the numbers didn’t match their vision,

when democracy delivered something

other than their dominion, they broke it.

The bullet was a door.

Violence, they learned, required no permission.

Violence asked no questions, counted no votes,

simply walked through walls

and called it liberation.

The suffering was a door.

Their own suffering, mostly—

real or imagined, nursed or invented,

it didn’t matter anymore.

Suffering became currency, became weapon,

became the foundation they built upon.

And lived inside the house of suffering.

Hung portraits of their wounds on every wall.

Set the table with the meals they never got.

Slept in beds made of every rejection.

I deny the denied lions.

I deny what they’ve become.

I deny the teeth, the feast, the flag they wave,

the anthem they have made of their own pain.

Let it be sense over suffering.

Let it be life over ideology.

Let it be love over the arithmetic of grievance.

Halt the bullet. Halt the ballot. Halt the feeding.

Or become what you feast upon:

Lions eating lions eating lions,

Until even the copper runs dry,

Until there is no blood left to taste,

Until the house of suffering collapses

under the weight of its own emptiness,

And there is nothing left to taste

But the memory of hunger,

Which tastes like you,

Which has always tasted like you,

Which will taste like you

until you learn

that hunger is not identity,

that denial is not destiny,

that you were never meant

to live like this—

teeth bared, claws out,

feeding on yourself

and calling it survival.

Tradition is back

from a twist of the spine,

a movement that leaves half a skeleton—

the other is broken and gone.

What once was spoken is no longer written.

What once was sacred is now screenshot.

Life is archived in tweets, in clips, in posts—

each word a potential weapon,

each secret ready for exposure,

each story waiting to be weaponized

by whoever finds it first.

The oral gave way to the written.

The written gave way to the recorded.

The recorded gave way to the surveilled.

Now everything they say lives forever,

timestamped, geotagged, searchable,

belonging to platforms they do not own,

curated by algorithms they do not understand.

No fire needed to burn the books.

No executions for thoughtcrime.

Just screenshots. Just comments.

Just the slow accumulation of evidence

that what you said is what you meant

is who you are is all you’ll ever be.

We fracture under the weight of performance:

integrity online,

whatever we need offline,

and somewhere between these selves,

the spine twists again,

our actual selves’ fracture,

split down the spine,

half skeleton, half ghost.

leaving us in search for the pieces

we lost when we agreed

to let our lives become content.

Nostalgia keeps me while the present runs ahead.

I search for the pieces of that lost spine,

trying to reassemble what was broken

when we traded stories for content,

when we became consumers, then products, then consumers again,

endlessly cycling through ourselves.

And writers? Stop writing.

A useless endeavor.

Allow our feelings and ideas to breeze through the air

as we sit around the campfire.

Where, in the circle of light,

a figure waits—half-revealed, half-shadow.

He speaks in fables about life,

tales so rich, so textured, so unlike

the mindless scroll, the endless feed,

that writers lean in, mesmerized.

He tells them to add sticks to the fire—

“The flame will rise, and you will see my face.”

So, they gather wood, feed the flames,

desperate for the moment of full revelation.

But the shadows only deepen.

Half his face remains hidden.

“More sticks,” he whispers. “Keep going.”

The writers burn their hands reaching.

The fire consumes the wood they offer.

Ash covers their skin, their clothes, their faces.

Still, they cannot see him whole.

Until they realize—

they are alone.

The figure has vanished.

The fire has died.

And above them, in the cold glow

of screens they thought they’d escaped,

the spectators watch onward,

holding sleek devices—

vertical, segmented, curved—

a spine made into gadget,

vertebrae transformed to glowing nodes

they grip and scroll.

They chant in unison:

“Broken and gone.

Broken and gone.

Broken and gone.”

It was just a helping hand.

I’ve seen others speak.

So why can’t we be good?

I want to be good people who think,

And know what we deserve.

It’s how I carry myself.

I know myself—

I’m generous and always willing to lend a hand,

So, I know what I deserve.

I know how to speak,

And I know what you think.

I will always be good.

What you did was not very good,

So, I had to insert myself.

You need to hear what people think!

Wait—is that a cut on your hand?

Use your words and learn to speak.

…Maybe it’s what you deserve.

I don’t mean to laugh, but I think I deserve

A moment to feel good.

It’s been a while since we got to speak.

I don’t mean to whisper, but I do this for myself.

I mean, there’s no scars on my hand.

So, what do you think?

Wait, never mind—I shouldn’t ask you to think.

Don’t you know what you deserve?

Relax, it was just a lending hand.

My intentions are always good.

I try to be the best version of myself.

C’mon, why won’t you speak?

It makes me feel bad when you don’t speak.

You’re starting to make me think…

I’m not the best at being by myself.

I want what I deserve!

I don’t know about you, but I’m good.

That’s why I’m always willing to lend a hand.

Now I won’t show you my hand, but you shouldn’t want to speak.

As a good person, I watch how I think.

I deserve everything; I am happy with myself.

Before I enter in, you will have to declare, please,

And prepare for my patient the best of healthcare, please.

Do not worry your head with the work that I shall bear—

I request that you wait for the rolling wheelchair, please.

“And again,” you have said? How you’ve taken to stare,

“It is fine—but at first, you must learn to be fair, please.”

I am sure you can see that my standards are quite rare.

Do not be such a bore; let me offer you care, please.

For the patient, a smile for “Your Grace” is the snare.

It is Robenia—make sure that you shall prepare, please.

The children now collect pretty brown cards,

to shame the bitter men who stay upset.

They’re stuck inside that tired, worn-down box,

a show that’s always on without the net.

The fun-time women play along, yet they

will never grow beyond their broken set.

They’re holding cards they didn’t want to keep,

they play the hand but never place the bet.

The game is simple: nobody can win,

nobody leaves, but everyone’s upset.

Forget about intuition, don’t fret—

just hop right into my good-time Corvette.

The honeys I find on the ride downtown

stay cool, calm, and collected—worth hunting

Of course I didn’t forget your face—

I kept it close, kept the memory stunning.

You drew every eye without even trying,

made yourself the mark, now they’re gunning.

I warned you once what attention brings,

how crowds can turn from praise to shunning.

It wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t

so pretty, so perfect for the running.

Why look so worried? Don’t turn strange—

superstition won’t save you from what’s coming.

It used to be a run

Now it’s get typing

The fastest gets that big sale

To run amok in

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

It creeps with breath of ice and biting cold.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

You mock the way I choose to dive and swim,

I wonder—was this fated and foretold?

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

My streams of thought are better now than him.

The whispers tempt a fear for me to hold.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

The icy world now seems darker and grim,

I still refuse to dive in the pinfold,

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

I will not sink, I only choose to swim,

Free will—a sudden sight I now behold.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long,

No longer caught between the drown and shore.

I’m sorry, but I held on far too long.

Hello, my Death, I feel you standing near.

the cut bleeds worse from a dull knife…

with old rust and burns,

angry to be used,

but resentful to be ignored.

proud only to reflect

your image of hell.

there’s an urge to surge

many thoughts come before bed

chasing around the unsaid

wind came as comfort

a sweet lie in the moment

easing the burn of the fire

My near sky tells me its time for my

cuckoo to rest

Its taken hours, days, years to feel this

rustling in my chest

it squeezes ever so softly

it creeps past my trachea

who is this mighty visitor?

I know its not stress

We don’t feel stress here

And the tears run stream

free from heartbreak

How many years more for release

that may be released, until

it no longer pours out much

It’s past 4:44 AM and here

I lie awake

with this baby panic attacks ache

where a sip of water is the

thousandth drop upon a bound head

But I am not dead

So I know

it’s worse than I fear

Because its more than I know

But I still know I don’t know

So tell me…

before the sunrise

Why is my spirit upset?

A sunrise brings a pulsing width to please the teary hostess,

In pleasures of the solstice, stay and seek the weary hostess.

Beat sweetness who inspires a favored flavor for the flavored,

A pleasant welcome home to hold within the cheery hostess.

Most lovely, likely lively cover slips beneath the shadows,

A creamy, dreamy, leery fold for any bleary hostess.

The pharynx and the essence now receive a ready phallus,

A seed awaits the sensual inside the weary hostess.

Rest sweetly, kneaded keeper, while the quiet whispers notice,

Robenia finds fallen breaths within the eerie hostess.

It’s a high rise when the alveoli sigh.

In the dark night, the air is quite a sight.

It’s sad in that way—

I wonder, what’s the rush?

The city hums below.

Streetlights flicker through my window.

Like a cage rattling.

But in the moment, I can’t.

I can’t.

I don’t understand.

My hand—it tries to grab onto

the nothingness.

My eyes find wider eyes—

offering

a hand, some water…?

Anything?

No longer can I see.

I close my eyes

and count the beats—

one, two, three, four,

five, six, seven—

knocking, knocking, knocking

against the wall.

Then I can feel me

breathe between

Knees.

Till alveoli sigh again.

The air came as a shock.

I watch it blind the dock, the shape

Moved in tune with its fate.

The turn, the figure eight—shakes

Them till they start to quake

For the quiet, daybreak against

The pillars of the bay.

Sun, please send it away—I’ll stay.

A beluga whale swims through the sea.

Beluga descends through layers of blue

to where pressure holds secrets.

Something rises, bubbling—

a shot of water, a burst of pressure—

then gold, then movement, then a tail

that catches light like treasure.

Beluga watches.

The shape emerging from darkness

has no name the whale knows.

Beluga swims closer.

The shape takes form:

arms reaching through water,

hair streaming like shadow,

a face turning upward

toward the distant surface.

What meets the whale’s gaze

is neither human nor fish,

but something that contains both,

something that should not be possible.

Their eyes meet.

Something passes between them

in the space where water

meets the gaze of the impossible:

recognition, perhaps.

Or a warning.

Or a bargain made without words.

Beluga whale turns.

A beluga whale swims through the sea,

dreaming or feeling out the sea.

Please, listen to me

It’s the ocean, not mountains

Sighed, a water sign

by why I went wept to move gently above the head

the mist laced my vision for a veiled cosmocrats friend

they say its phase will dire blue

its lint is the lent view

the warmth from amber dwells

tonight her curve’s rounded curl

clusters the stars polite gaze

their might a slight reminder of style

love’s first fashion shines

a bright path between the stars

figure eight diamond tried four right

held left by three

a white kite reveal

the grounded smize of starry tree

my double ire may receive the dream

of me, of marsh, of march

to seize the visitor’s unaligned quest

—aligned breeze felt back to sea—

before this fire welts, I return to

pebble not please the river’s end

foresight quenched a rapid fire

passion wind around its head

as for my gift from marsh, I say,

“join me to flower dear Arles”

From dusk till dawn, the lines

Were drawn with arson crimes for rights.

Determined mob now wise

And strong claim freedom from the whites. No jail

Awaits a true folktale,

Of Black slaves who prevail with pride.

Powder thrown, jolly eyes, we

March on down…as songs guide a wine.

Sweet sugary treat

Surround the small baby seed

Spicy, tart, and sour

Sweetness brought,

Cookies and ice cream

On a cone,

Come to meet

A wide tongue in a nice dream.

Time to ring that phone.

Love on my purple knitted hat,

its cozy warmth protects this brat

who feels the chill where cold winds sat.

I learned manure, grit, and spit,

to move, to groom, to lead earth lit

creatures through each daily writ—

in five short days of this and that.

The heavens bless those who commit

to earth’s own pulse, its sacred grit—

where root connection is true wit—

Vermont, you crowned me cosmocrat.

Sea moss

filters the shallows,

holding light

for fish and fractured reef

it was high time

for the other

eye on side

the other know

engulfs my

favorite maze

its hue a deep

truth

its stunning dim

wind

my forever steam

hidden bramble

my always Green

free from fire

the eye clears

thought

from my autumn

haste

now that earth

patched

my yearns…

will high tide

return?

to root my

alveoli’s sigh

from the thneed

I’ve lost a sleeve

but gained a

stream

yes, I am

humble

to the curve

of her sheen

as she gleams,

I plead,

cast me

right

into

my lovers

dream

was it my autumn leave

or the fall of prickles thneed?

by love dim murmurs a fickle

leaf turned armor

ground it—grounded

or bound by the grind

a grand design for a sleeve

made to fulfill their needs

only then

you may

or I may

feel the sunbeam between trees

taking up space and casting shadows—

revealing another other side…

or a spot where might may rest

but the long time burn demands

ground it—grounded

or bound by the grind

yet my form has freed

from the haste of the autumn leaves

I.

a head cast downward

the sole of right

feel feet firm

root along

plant of

spine

lined

to

stall

the tiny chamber

hopes for a fruitful

sound,

but grows for

embellished sound

the hope versus what grows

is the cast that clays

shade

luring in, to that, another

other side of

the nothingness

the loneliness

the never needs

but two ubiquitous true knows

hoping that the beam may see

maybe free a pity thing

from the cast of a starry tree

yet a leaf takes

leave

back home to its earthly

being

and the fruitful sound

forever unknown

by the embellished sound

forever known

of the bound

of the bowed

that must watch all flee

II.

as I lay, I forget to

lie awake

and I begin to

feel for a

different dream

for I’ve begun

to see

the back of trees

and hear

confusion wind

as I lay, I forget to

swim with eye

and I begin to

feel for a

different stream

for I’ve begun

to meet

my inner being

and hear

ebb tide

The end happens at the first leave

from Neptune—no more wishing on starry

trees for what won’t fall from heaven

The rest—let it rest, and leave it behind

Introspection leaves

Float toward the ducks in ponds

Thriving in yellow

She walks to find what clarity may come.

On heavy days, we pray to raise her gaze.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

The ocean breeze removes every path,

Until her soles seek a different phase;

She walks to find what clarity may come.

Perhaps it would be best if she had stayed,

To beg for them to offer up their praise.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

Those bitter memories run on like film,

Of truths whose light refuses yet to fade.

She walks to find what clarity may come.

The sun winks down, and she rethinks its rays,

Which grants the kindest love she ever laid.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

Our answer became a whispered aid:

“Your path leads far beyond their twisted maze.”

She walks to find what clarity may come.

The end of life gives birth to my return.

The graveyard shift

Paused my shift—with

Lip—shifts to kiss.

Tradition is back

from a twist of the spine,

a movement that leaves half a skeleton—

the other is broken and gone.

What once was spoken is no longer written.

What once was sacred is now screenshot.

Life is archived in tweets, in clips, in posts—

each word a potential weapon,

each secret ready for exposure,

each story waiting to be weaponized

by whoever finds it first.

The oral gave way to the written.

The written gave way to the recorded.

The recorded gave way to the surveilled.

Now everything they say lives forever,

timestamped, geotagged, searchable,

belonging to platforms they do not own,

curated by algorithms they do not understand.

No fire needed to burn the books.

No executions for thoughtcrime.

Just screenshots. Just comments.

Just the slow accumulation of evidence

that what you said is what you meant

is who you are is all you’ll ever be.

We fracture under the weight of performance:

integrity online,

whatever we need offline,

and somewhere between these selves,

the spine twists again,

our actual selves’ fracture,

split down the spine,

half skeleton, half ghost.

leaving us in search for the pieces

we lost when we agreed

to let our lives become content.

Nostalgia keeps me while the present runs ahead.

I search for the pieces of that lost spine,

trying to reassemble what was broken

when we traded stories for content,

when we became consumers, then products, then consumers again,

endlessly cycling through ourselves.

And writers? Stop writing.

A useless endeavor.

Allow our feelings and ideas to breeze through the air

as we sit around the campfire.

Where, in the circle of light,

a figure waits—half-revealed, half-shadow.

He speaks in fables about life,

tales so rich, so textured, so unlike

the mindless scroll, the endless feed,

that writers lean in, mesmerized.

He tells them to add sticks to the fire—

“The flame will rise, and you will see my face.”

So, they gather wood, feed the flames,

desperate for the moment of full revelation.

But the shadows only deepen.

Half his face remains hidden.

“More sticks,” he whispers. “Keep going.”

The writers burn their hands reaching.

The fire consumes the wood they offer.

Ash covers their skin, their clothes, their faces.

Still, they cannot see him whole.

Until they realize—

they are alone.

The figure has vanished.

The fire has died.

And above them, in the cold glow

of screens they thought they’d escaped,

the spectators watch onward,

holding sleek devices—

vertical, segmented, curved—

a spine made into gadget,

vertebrae transformed to glowing nodes

they grip and scroll.

They chant in unison:

“Broken and gone.

Broken and gone.

Broken and gone.”

The shadows now provide mystique,

a place to hide from their critique,

though life remains unpicturesque.

Perform for none, show no respect

for those who judge what they reject—

So walk that path alone—it’s perfect,

for a free spirit made unique.

My favorite dream you will protect:

that solitude will not neglect

the parts of me they’d dissect—

preserved until we’re picturesque.

today my face is on ache

the vacations anthem

of precision

its bake tightens the stain

awaken my pace

packed, tacked, laced

a prestigious face

then after, it clears

my dear eel

slithers to save

or ring from sting

then before, it rears

my dear edge

cold to crease

or ragged cries

yes, my love derm debris

welcome the soothe

love guaranteed

when the skins smooth

its only for the ray

or a fleeting moments

sake

tomorrow my face returns

to take leave

from space

Purity, unity, and clarity breed

A thousand petals bright as distant stars.

Reform the path to root a living creed,

The beam dissolves what memory still scars.

Time gifts a legacy the mind exceeds,

Past passion—so they won’t remain on Mars.

The inner light provides for all our needs,

And breaks the locks of all our prison bars.

Be wiser than the past—no persona,

All names dissolve like mist upon the shore.

Behold the flowering of consciousness,

And breathe the freedom of the open air.

Open your eyes to see—itsrobenia,

United with the cosmos, fully seen.

Eyes wide open, mouth closed shut—phenomenally

Ears tightly wound, mind wide open—phenomenal

A virtuous vessel bears a kind smile on the face of a woman

A corrupt sea rejects the truth, that’s

Renewed freedom to be me.

Time is the reject of ‘we’

Who were made to pay

In blood, sweat, and silence for

That long-time burn, under the

Mean unforgiving sun

Now hold my hand girl

It is love, it is loud, it is light—

we ignite, we take flight, burn bright,

the energy, the endless sight.

They watch to see how we sustain,

stay busy, work hard, watch them feign

niceness as they go insane—

but we rush, we fuss, we fight.

We hustle, build without constraint,

no time for those who taint

the city with their quaint complaint—

this place demands your might.

It’s a high rise when the alveoli sigh.

In the dark night, the air is quite a sight.

It’s sad in that way—

I wonder, what’s the rush?

The city hums below.

Streetlights flicker through my window.

Like a cage rattling.

But in the moment, I can’t.

I can’t.

I don’t understand.

My hand—it tries to grab onto

the nothingness.

My eyes find wider eyes—

offering

a hand, some water…?

Anything?

No longer can I see.

I close my eyes

and count the beats—

one, two, three, four,

five, six, seven—

knocking, knocking, knocking

against the wall.

Then I can feel me

breathe between

Knees.

Till alveoli sigh again.

It is only strength

That one descriptor plagues me

My body is sick of it

Now I realize

Why it attacked my kidneys

I had too much waste

A sunrise brings a pulsing width to please the teary hostess,

In pleasures of the solstice, stay and seek the weary hostess.

Beat sweetness who inspires a favored flavor for the flavored,

A pleasant welcome home to hold within the cheery hostess.

Most lovely, likely lively cover slips beneath the shadows,

A creamy, dreamy, leery fold for any bleary hostess.

The pharynx and the essence now receive a ready phallus,

A seed awaits the sensual inside the weary hostess.

Rest sweetly, kneaded keeper, while the quiet whispers notice,

Robenia finds fallen breaths within the eerie hostess.

In the heat, its grain will strike and split

Under cool, its sponge will adjust and slip

At the split of the seam

Left welcome home flute

Right shaped or shape me home

The flesh renews despite the familiar

A remote flow beneath love’s boat

Whether true or moat, a cup of palm

Celebrates a treaty float

Maybe the flower vessel whose cries

Reveals satisfaction or lows

Inspire the breeze asleep

A wave

My life’s

Easel

From the abyss, the upper drift becomes

Cornflower blue—God’s opaque flavored

Where the soul swims consciousness

Depth flood common thought of one

Hue lit blood run or drowned fear?

Where the feminine frees sensory life

Relief brings the air, a stubborn breath

From the sun, the lower strays becomes

A sketched shadows entry wave

Hue lit blood run or drowned fear?

The sight of one perceived as fluid

The sweat unfelt becomes overwhelm

The rays stung the fleet into shadow

The tides drone the rays into marrow

Hue lit blood run or drowned fear?

The left leafs view is drilled fossil fuel

The right reefs view is diesel holding

Perhaps it best to be a friend of sand

And a zillion grounds of observant or expression

Tamar hue brow

Like porcupine

Dark with

Judgments veil

Beneath its shimmer

Wild white dust

From the slightest

Brush, the flesh

Sinks in to meet

An abnormal bit

Of space—

Living genesis

For what’s to taste

For what’s at stake

I await for sweetness

Sake, but a tang

Of bitterness lands

Sour across my face

But its bittersweet

Intrigues and I

Begin to call at my

Sugar filled field

As the after party’s

Sly timber—

Living ambrosia

For what’s to sliver

Tamar once again

Smile for liminal sake

Arles heeds the seeds

righteous ache

The love of one begs

A cheery late

At the base of my spine

Past the unaligned hour

Please, provide an eerie taste

From temptations test

Meets the sweet tamarind

The sour switched nerve

Served my bitter muse

Be wary. Be wary.

Together, both our hands separate wide,

To guide the tiny fingers of the child.

He dribbled and he wobbled in his stride,

With spirit that was gentle yet was wild.

If only you could see how bright he smiled,

A light that filled the spaces of the day.

By every joyful motion we were beguiled,

As all the shadows seemed to melt away.

And then we stood beside the water slide—

He ran with all the joy of being young.

There was no place for any grief to hide,

While songs of future life were being sung.

It was a beautiful dream, right, honey?

“It’s real, your son is here in my tummy.”

Dear life, what a surprise it is to dine

Around a rapid pulse that breathes to need.

The bitter sweetly blends and turns to wine,

Upon the hunger that the spirits feed.

The rhythm stills the restless, hollow plead

For one wise dove whose beauty will entwine.

They plant within the heart a golden seed,

And turn the water into living stream.

It may rewind to lesser times, indeed,

Where old is new and new is old for spite.

The soul is stripped of every selfish greed,

As morning stars begin to catch the light.

Though love may struggle in the dark of night,

At last, the lovers hold champion requite.

May all the wise sit down to rest and find

Upon the knowing that the divine brings.

The light within begins to brightly shine

Above the noise of small and petty things.

The tender seeds have found a home in gold,

Within the garden’s peaceful, quiet state.

No need for tiptoe steps or being told

To fear the heavy hand of hidden fate.

For quiet lives must always keep on going

Toward the blessings that return tenfold.

The inner sun is rising now and glowing

To turn the winter spirit from the cold.

Let warmth now turn your blue to a new hue—

When it occurs, remember what is true.

Page follows page, then pages once again,

It takes so many just to fill the part.

The Pages don’t yet know—it is a sin

To play the game before they even start.

The truth is hidden—oh, how outrageous,

The hopes and dreams are only made to break.

We trap our spirits in these paper cages,

For someone else’s greed or for their sake.

Around the fire, he lights up every face,

“Pick up the pen and feed the flame below.”

He lures the children with a warm embrace,

And feeds the flames to make the story grow.

Escape the fire now, close the book—

From Pages into Chapters—off the hook!

Be wary of the ones who force you wake

To feed a fate of constant victimhood.

They strike with venom like a heavy snake,

And mask their evil as a higher good.

They fill your vision with a sharp heartbreak,

And plot to steal your precious childhood.

Constructed for the sake of what they take,

Their hollow hearts are made of rotted wood.

But turn your sight to all that life will be,

And dream a world beyond their dark design.

The eyes that open wide will help you see

The light of truth that makes your vision shine.

Once you have overcome, you will be free

To sail across a calm and open sea.

Purity, unity, and clarity breed

A thousand petals bright as distant stars.

Reform the path to root a living creed,

The beam dissolves what memory still scars.

Time gifts a legacy the mind exceeds,

Past passion—so they won’t remain on Mars.

The inner light provides for all our needs,

And breaks the locks of all our prison bars.

Be wiser than the past—no persona,

All names dissolve like mist upon the shore.

Behold the flowering of consciousness,

And breathe the freedom of the open air.

Open your eyes to see—itsrobenia,

United with the cosmos, fully seen.

Tap into these pretty lips, redeem first access

to happy thighs counting on empress to express.

Travel six million miles over the vessel, an

upbeat friend awaits the seas moving in express.

A worthy pal grips onto a heavy

beat, between knees, ready to receive and express.

Today, a master is chosen to explore the

vast ocean, with better moves—ideally—with express.

Sleep becomes the woman in blissful worlds until—

Beans emerge as liquid from Heavy Load Express.

Bless the lions who were told no.

Bless the lions who turned their no into teeth.

Bless the scratch, the claw, the white-eyed hunt.

They feed on insecurity.

They feed on insecurity.

They feed until the insecurity is them.

Watch him grow claws where his hands used to be.

Watch him practice tearing in the mirror.

Watch the transformation from man to predator,

from human to hunger with a human face.

I deny the denied lions.

I deny what they’ve become.

Let it be sense over suffering.

Let it be life over ideology.

Let it be love over the arithmetic of grievance.

Halt the bullet. Halt the ballot. Halt the feeding.

Or become what you feast upon:

Lions eating lions eating lions,

Until there is nothing left to taste

But the memory of hunger,

Which tastes like you,

Which will taste like you

until you learn

that hunger is not identity,

that denial is not destiny.

One day, you will meet your perfect husband,

the prince from fairy tales since days of old.

Don’t worry yourself with bills or dishes—

he’ll handle everything, just don’t be bold.

If you need help, just call your father,

the man who shaped you in his chosen mold.

He still calls you baby dove and sweetheart,

still keeps you safe inside his careful hold.

He raised you to believe that waiting is

the same as choosing when the truth is told.

That being chosen means you’re finally free—

a fairy tale you’ve been buying, bought, and sold.

The children now collect pretty brown cards,

to shame the bitter men who stay upset.

They’re stuck inside that tired, worn-down box,

a show that’s always on without the net.

The fun-time women play along, yet they

will never grow beyond their broken set.

They’re holding cards they didn’t want to keep,

they play the hand but never place the bet.

The game is simple: nobody can win,

nobody leaves, but everyone’s upset.

Forget about intuition, don’t fret—

just hop right into my good-time Corvette.

It was just a helping hand.

I’ve seen others speak.

So why can’t we be good?

I want to be good people who think,

And know what we deserve.

It’s how I carry myself.

I know myself—

I’m generous and always willing to lend a hand,

So, I know what I deserve.

I know how to speak,

And I know what you think.

I will always be good.

What you did was not very good,

So, I had to insert myself.

You need to hear what people think!

Wait—is that a cut on your hand?

Use your words and learn to speak.

…Maybe it’s what you deserve.

I don’t mean to laugh, but I think I deserve

A moment to feel good.

It’s been a while since we got to speak.

I don’t mean to whisper, but I do this for myself.

I mean, there’s no scars on my hand.

So, what do you think?

Wait, never mind—I shouldn’t ask you to think.

Don’t you know what you deserve?

Relax, it was just a lending hand.

My intentions are always good.

I try to be the best version of myself.

C’mon, why won’t you speak?

It makes me feel bad when you don’t speak.

You’re starting to make me think…

I’m not the best at being by myself.

I want what I deserve!

I don’t know about you, but I’m good.

That’s why I’m always willing to lend a hand.

Now I won’t show you my hand, but you shouldn’t want to speak.

As a good person, I watch how I think.

I deserve everything; I am happy with myself.

The honeys I find on the ride downtown

stay cool, calm, and collected—worth hunting

Of course I didn’t forget your face—

I kept it close, kept the memory stunning.

You drew every eye without even trying,

made yourself the mark, now they’re gunning.

I warned you once what attention brings,

how crowds can turn from praise to shunning.

It wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t

so pretty, so perfect for the running.

Why look so worried? Don’t turn strange—

superstition won’t save you from what’s coming.

Page follows page, then pages once again,

It takes so many just to fill the part.

The Pages don’t yet know—it is a sin

To play the game before they even start.

The truth is hidden—oh, how outrageous,

The hopes and dreams are only made to break.

We trap our spirits in these paper cages,

For someone else’s greed or for their sake.

Around the fire, he lights up every face,

“Pick up the pen and feed the flame below.”

He lures the children with a warm embrace,

And feeds the flames to make the story grow.

Escape the fire now, close the book—

From Pages into Chapters—off the hook!

Be wary of the ones who force you wake

To feed a fate of constant victimhood.

They strike with venom like a heavy snake,

And mask their evil as a higher good.

They fill your vision with a sharp heartbreak,

And plot to steal your precious childhood.

Constructed for the sake of what they take,

Their hollow hearts are made of rotted wood.

But turn your sight to all that life will be,

And dream a world beyond their dark design.

The eyes that open wide will help you see

The light of truth that makes your vision shine.

Once you have overcome, you will be free

To sail across a calm and open sea.

The great study

Of the world’s untrue

The sinner

Ooze glue to

Take time to think about it

But will never know

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed,

She turns and aches; her moves are always frail.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

At times, I praise her ears with some light jest,

But fears and shadows leave her face so pale.

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed.

I’d speak of lighter days to ease distress

To ease her mind when all her strength had failed.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

She fought against it, never acquiesced,

For in her death, she thinks that I will fail.

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed.

I search for her best gown and Sunday best,

Her kin are gone—they hate that she’s female.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

I hope her passing had no pain or stress;

I held on until her final exhale.

On Sundays, she would speak of days still blessed.

On Fridays, she will weep until she rests.

Together, both our hands separate wide,

To guide the tiny fingers of the child.

He dribbled and he wobbled in his stride,

With spirit that was gentle yet was wild.

If only you could see how bright he smiled,

A light that filled the spaces of the day.

By every joyful motion we were beguiled,

As all the shadows seemed to melt away.

And then we stood beside the water slide—

He ran with all the joy of being young.

There was no place for any grief to hide,

While songs of future life were being sung.

It was a beautiful dream, right, honey?

“It’s real, your son is here in my tummy.”

Yes, go when it rains

Not during, but right before

When the mist reveals the veil

It’s black, white, and grey

Moves gently above the head

When the lace reveals the moon

On wind that carries

Curved edges in upward float

Collect her tear from the cloud

May the rain support

Mothers surface and evolve

A furrowed brow to closed eyes

a gravy hear and wear

splash sweetly our heel and mare

another was brought to trust

with a kind bright for sound

tonight we lay for dusk

for tomorrow’s promised bow

sky welcome eyes

who protect your drool

one is a sun hue of petals

peeking through a muddy slew

two’s a handsome fellow

who’s form adjust per moat

today we brace the salt-white ring

from sting for loves endless blue

earth goodbye tears

who soften grounds consume

Crisp wisps whip the air

Tall trees have no fear around

Moonlit everbear

well, well, well, I

hear the generous

appear with lots of

love and Holiday cheer

Cold endless tide

Blue in the glide way

Where pride is drowned.

I.

the fabric lies upon the maze

cast from my gaze

deeply true to its bright blue

beyond its patch the path wonders

pondering a farewell of the crescent shape

deeply true to its dark wound

each step—a wondrous feat

from earth’s hearth births heaven’s room

deeply true to its flesh cool

the middle kind

a liminal smile

between the lefts—

roll onto hard jagged knew

between the rights—

dive under wet tithes’ knew

there is no time to wait

for ego’s rise

or

to swim for grim

ebb time

II.

here lies the wind

who grins to

extinguish fire

there are no new or old stories sole

why won’t lies everbear?

missing pieces have long grown souled

in a new uncertain body

the blue is truth’s hue

the pain left on ebb

why won’t these faces face me?

what more can I say?

what more will they mine?

it’s time to flee

before my faze reveals

my gaze fears their pain

its birth formed from lies lent

a carriaged fossil made to spine

a dire sight

for a pair of fresh ire

life’s lover awaits

wrapped as God’s gift

in cornflower blue

at least I can watch a fallen leaf fleeting finale

an eerie scheme proposed by nature’s alley

in line with its starry wheat

now I gallop in hymn along atop my Arles

and listen to the silent gear of grief’s beast

free as could be

we gallop and stream

with every feat, the heart’s hooves skip a beat

a bit of sweat shudders my wrist seam

in line with its wicked sting

unlike wind, the parting closes then forces might

the best of wit was the rise of shine

in line with its spirit wisp

for I had climbed by and by before the heat

yet in company, I tether to a humble knee

as they fall, I falter a stall for another

free as could be

we gallop and stream

each thought an image of wonder crimes

each time a tied tithe where ponder cries

at that stop, did we hear movement fear?

the wind muscled the earth to drop

a double eye match stayed forced

focus forward our together heel

my churned chest wines and dines

the sun of truth mined epithet mused

mealing the fire with a scored bruise

illuminated iris called irony moon

in line with its welcome spring

free as could be

we gallop and stream

Good morning becomes the garden’s bloom

by why I went wept to move gently above the head

the mist laced my vision for a veiled cosmocrats friend

they say its phase will dire blue

its lint is the lent view

the warmth from amber dwells

tonight her curve’s rounded curl

clusters the stars polite gaze

their might a slight reminder of style

love’s first fashion shines

a bright path between the stars

figure eight diamond tried four right

held left by three

a white kite reveal

the grounded smize of starry tree

my double ire may receive the dream

of me, of marsh, of march

to seize the visitor’s unaligned quest

—aligned breeze felt back to sea—

before this fire welts, I return to

pebble not please the river’s end

foresight quenched a rapid fire

passion wind around its head

as for my gift from marsh, I say,

“join me to flower dear Arles”

Tamar hue brow

Like porcupine

Dark with

Judgments veil

Beneath its shimmer

Wild white dust

From the slightest

Brush, the flesh

Sinks in to meet

An abnormal bit

Of space—

Living genesis

For what’s to taste

For what’s at stake

I await for sweetness

Sake, but a tang

Of bitterness lands

Sour across my face

But its bittersweet

Intrigues and I

Begin to call at my

Sugar filled field

As the after party’s

Sly timber—

Living ambrosia

For what’s to sliver

Tamar once again

Smile for liminal sake

Arles heeds the seeds

righteous ache

The love of one begs

A cheery late

At the base of my spine

Past the unaligned hour

Please, provide an eerie taste

From temptations test

Meets the sweet tamarind

The sour switched nerve

Served my bitter muse

Be wary. Be wary.

I took ten knives

out my back

and put it in

their hands.

With a smile

I said,

“Nah, you right,

I understand.”

Now show me

how you gon

be…

Wait—no,

I walked away.

I found

true sight in

Green.

I never knew

that earth

could be

so welcoming

to a sad thing.

At night, the stars aligned

to hug the moon,

whose figure boo

shake paved the way

to a pebble

by the lake,

who invites my aches.

With time, and

sleep, and ease

they barely ache

and never more do they quake,

for the roots fasten

on to support

my wake.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove,

Since peace arrived, a current flows within,

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

The silence pierces through the gentle breeze,

Each turning point reveals a way to grin.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove.

The depths below now offer up their keys,

A steady pulse returns through dried-up skin.

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

Time slowly bends to match your love’s decrees,

Old habits shift and teach the heart to spin.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove.

She tends the wounds that time forgot to ease,

Your guidance comes in time to help her win.

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

New breath arrives where panic used to seize,

What once was fixed now learns how to begin.

The caretaker, the inner compass dove,

Revise now, open your eyes to cloudy tears.

Purity, unity, and clarity breed

A thousand petals bright as distant stars.

Reform the path to root a living creed,

The beam dissolves what memory still scars.

Time gifts a legacy the mind exceeds,

Past passion—so they won’t remain on Mars.

The inner light provides for all our needs,

And breaks the locks of all our prison bars.

Be wiser than the past—no persona,

All names dissolve like mist upon the shore.

Behold the flowering of consciousness,

And breathe the freedom of the open air.

Open your eyes to see—itsrobenia,

United with the cosmos, fully seen.

The moment I picked

up my pen

I let chance end

Good intentions

I left dead

There is no one day

in the future

Or we may cross

paths again

Now I make it

all happen

Luck, power, drive,

And opportunity

The hate? It’s

just a tornado

I’m a seasoned

survivor

I already know—

bathtub or the bunker

The wind blows

until it goes

But my life? It’s

the ocean

Now I push my pen

and 26′ is the horse

I figure I sit back

and enjoy the year

With my favorite

beer of choice.

whenever’s next home tidy

my hoove crest

its grainy filled with

valley low seeds

as they slip, I remember

tomorrow’s easel

but the moment

holds a secret

and I’m too shy to neigh

that the breeze’s a thief

its tease unbodied

carrying truths blue

as they blow, I remember

tomorrow’s easel

foreclosure’s present now

disloyal to its gossip

where is my welcome afraid

I fear it time’s astray