She was rusted shut

I am shaking the rust off;

you dance below

as if it is snow

and you are a child


with joy.

once I shine

I will be with you boy

our new start

will be


to blinding

and I am finding

corrosion through tears

just puts me

in proverbial junkyards,

a discard.

it’s this hard

to say sorry,

scrub myself clean,

ask wizards for hearts,

abide in your

absurd dreams.

I’m the trophy of redemption,

the machine of simpatico,

and a tool

with rosy cheeks,

ready for the sequel

to my virgin ignition

You are the oil of ambition

to reach a place like home.

Published in: on December 27, 2011 at 12:49 am  Comments (2)  
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Our congenital ghosts,

those haunting habits,

permeating every drop of DNA,

sprinkled with the crumbs

of our ancestor’s sins,

are difficult to cleave,

could make us bleed

centuries all at once.

Carving it out

is as immense a task

as retrieving past breaths

fooling death,

and choking elusive phantoms.

These family trees

with gilded limbs,

are wrought in cancerous desire,

bound in wires

mere mortals strive to prune.

Changing the course of fate

is a futile feat

but I’ve seen great men beat

these invisible wraiths.

To strangle an unseen foe

proves an eidolon from a hero.

I know there is power in you;

enough acid

creeping through your veins

to erase the possession,

and etch lessons,

you will never forget.

Published in: on December 27, 2011 at 12:37 am  Leave a Comment  
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