scattered momento's

to change topic entirely for it has all gotten so grim
so grim
it pulls at its wirey grey beard hairs
and ahums
ahum
it grumbles with knotted knuckles plucking at strings of thought
skin around its eyes, taught
creased by thought
vertical cravasses of worry concern paths through the mountainess forehead
old man grim.
worn thin.
Looking up from under his brim.

So, a momento of love:
A moment
for love
when all is escaping
a whisp caught in your breath taking


He turns me so my right side is up.


He looks up from under his double arched brow, with big open bean blue eyes, his shoulders hung in defeat and comically, humorously, he is miming "can you believe this!?"
It is the first time I have seen him make this gesture. I gather it up, fold it with care and lay it with my pieces of him that i like, and don't like, they're just him.
Just him.


Glistening, bristling, shining, twinkling,
bones of carbon granite
flesh as rich as pomegranite
with your convoluted ideas
opinionated fingers jabbling holes in the air.


From under the fold of the fall of dark
it's ink hair
I have come up.
For air.
To Express Fully The Light Of My Soul.