I just want to know.

I think about Death
more often than I care to admit. 

I wonder if it’s lonely to be

Love’s final kiss or

Happiness’ tragic end or

Sadness’s sheer, sweet relief. 

Death, I just want to know are 

a scythe and a pen all that

different? Sometimes it’s 

impossible to distinguish 

under blankets of whiteness 

suffocating joy, love, life 

because of it’s own ancestral 

spiritual desperation. 

I only think about Death on 

Tuesdays or maybe it’s 

Wednesdays, or it could be 

the weekend lingering on. 

But I don’t think about dying.

I think about violence.

I think about assault. 

I think about trauma and abuse,

But I don’t think about dying. 

I think about rebirth, returning.

I think about wise, weathered trees.

I think about purpose and meaning. 

And when I sleep, sometimes

I wonder what that could be

like, if there’s still hope left

over once nightmares are done 

playing themselves on repeat.

Death, I just want to know are

you extra careful with those

traveling your way without their

own consent? Do you greet them

with the flowers withheld, with

safety and support, do you 

treasure their humanity in ways

the sun, the moon never did?

I think about Death,

more often than I care to admit. 

Some days the allure of eternal

sleep is so rich, I taste it.

Know Justice, Know Peace

I am my childhood's

wildest dreams and my elder's

favorite story.

Seasons

Somewhere between

here
and 
there

over yonder
and
restless soles

houses 
and 
homes

shattered remains of broken hearts
bones fortified in spite of annihilation
tongues strengthened by whispered truths

everything became a season.

I fell into you, a storm
of strewn wrappers, 
lightning talks,
thunderous proclamations. 

Sought solace in your
velvet dress and kindness
made permanent 
in that thin layer
between flesh and armor.

The chills of the world 
bowed down before an 
everlasting sunshine,
for how can you not smile
in the presence of a flame.

It was as if I awoke to
my world blanketed
in fresh perspective,
each step forward a
proclamation, reclamation. 

As quickly as I learned of
the possibility of the impossible
you vanished, moved along
to your next disciple in need. 

Reclamations From Anxiety

With no sense of time, 

I woke up today and for

that I am grateful.

Anxiety

Before you leap into me,
let me share 
my internal stillness crushed 
under an exoskeleton, 
soft underbelly no longer
exposed to predators, 
hidden from even myself.