Empty Light Pouring from Some Holes.

When the roots took hold
of everything inside me
I knew that I'd have to take a tab
to keep myself lit up.
And when that happened,
all my hues and tones
were filled in with neon anxiety.
Poison plant lay your underpinnings within me.
I am nutrients.  I am support.
I know the out there in the darkness.
Where one tree sways unlike the others.
Where one light shines dead matte black
while the others twinkle.
Where the singular planet wobbles gracelessly.
There are deep wells like empty holes.
Chalkboard coarseness scrawled
with random scratches of light.
The whine of the camera after the flash,
the red light bobbing in the after image.
I am surprise when the india ink tips over
covering everything effortlessly.
The whirl pool that stands
perpendicular to the marble hallway
is faster than your quickening pace.
The man just outside the window screen
is asking to be let in.
There is an air conditioner on,
no one will hear him slip in
through the hole in the wall.
And he can hear your footsteps.
He'll stroll amongst the parts,
the reoccurring nightmare,
the empty universe,
the ever present discontent,
the twinkling beauty.
Can't you see what I am doing?
What I am doing.
What am I doing.
I am a wasted guru.

Grief Funeral Procession.

We can make things less empty
if we all pull up the wreckage underneath.
We can turn it around in our minds
and let it completely unwind.
We can let the body burn slowly,
let the tears at our edges mend knowingly.
We can get the loss to recede in fits.
The sun wedges in our broken heart as a stint.
We can crystallize and turn into pink ice.
Our organ no longer an over used device.
We can get the cold.
We can lose to it.
We can come back from it.
We can live further then die from it.
We can be laid to rest.