Monday, November 18th

• The room goes dark,
  the only light to be
  seen is a small flicker
  from the TV screen.
  Shuffling and whispering
  echoes the room.
  A light tap on
  the shoulder a
  brush on the lips.
  It's dark but not gloomy.

• The glow of the
  moonlit path.
  The wet touch
  of a tear drop
  running down your
  chin.
  Running, running
  into the unknown
  hoping they
  don't catch you.

• Clouds in my house,
  because I have no ceilings.

Monday, November 11th

• The ticking of a clock,
  60 seconds seem like
  light years.
  
  the distance it takes
  to get to you
  is one I could not manage.
  
  You pulled the pin
  on my time bomb,
  so close your eyes,
  and brace yourself.
  
  Up up and away.

• Right where your significance
  becomes less significant,
  
  Right where the light,
  peaks through the pines,
  
  Right where the snow capped mountains
  cap the captivity,
  
  Is where I find myself now.

• Silver bead clings to the pink muscle,
  Confusion of all parts. Bewilderment.
  
  Why am I related to you? Who am I?
  
  I wish I could go back to being your
  little innocent girl, who was satisfied with
  only a twirl, right up in your arms, out of harm.

• Which of us, in his ambitious moments, has not dreamed of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical, without rhyme and without rhythm, supple enough and rugged enough to adapt itself to the lyrical impulses of the soul, the undulations of the psyche, the prickings of consciousness.

Baudelaire, "Paris Spleen" 1836