williamszm

Touching down on cloud nine, touching Chanel bags with wishful thinking and hungry eyes. This is the city of touch; reaching my hands into the sky for scale, as if counting every storey off on my many fingers, forgetting what comes after 99, penthouse; losing my place, starting from the ground floor up, tracing my eyes over each window like palms lazily sweeping over kitchen worktops. This is the city of touch, neon warm on my skin, the river rippling soft under my feet. Every inch of Versace Hermès Dior Gucci silk blouses hang like curtains veiled around me and I am all wrapped up in a world of prints pinks and patterns, eyes seein

Despite my lying prone beneath the weight Of haste-invented reasons not to try Still, the burning lights will not abate. No fear within or out assails my eye To cripple what is left of my ascent Or stand between the voids, the goal, and I. The waves may batter shores without relent Just as the pilgrim's progress is detained By all-encroaching darkness' descent. But no-- unflinching fires still remain Emblazoned on the paths beneath my feet. They light the burning hope which keeps me sane; These lights I follow till my hope's complete.

When you make the two one, you will become the Sons of Adam, and when you say, 'Mountain, move away,' it will move away.                            Thomas 106: 1-2 Thumos When I returned to town, I heard the stories: That you'd walked the oak path, And past the angel with the flaming sword;       Beneath the river,       Behind the trees       And through a pantheon           

we laughed like children high on m&ms, danced like we were carousel horses, and jump-roped our way through obstacle courses. I saved our footsteps in mason jars, in case we ever needed to follow yellow brick roads to get home. home was an illusion: honesty without truth, apologies without forgiveness, I kept home sandwiched between "never" and "have to." caroline, they'd say. caroline, stop being such a dreamer. stop taking us for granted. I packed every apology possible into my breath, left runaway plans lingering in the silence between family. when I found you dancing in the street, I listened for merry-go-round music. I

Listen to the dead voice saying, "Goodnight!" Hear the thunderous applause as the lights come up Over a roomful of sharply dressed ghosts O wander with me awhile Through Stygian concert halls in a bright lit metropolis Of the past We hear but cannot touch For fear their dust will blow away On a trombone soliloquy See the sparks fly towards Heaven! Watch their souls rise Flutter, flutter, twit, twit Ease the tempo down till our breaths Match theirs Can another gift like this exist In a universe of sight and sound That falls on the blind, the mute They filled the hall On a snowy 19th of December Air so clear, crisp, cold On a night in 1944

The summer sun is soaking earth with rays of half-impassive light the grapevines take this heady gift and swell to make the finest wine. The cedar trees outstretch their arms to shade the swiftly singing stream and welcome waxwings darting near to perch among their sacred beams. The turk's cap lilies hail the breeze and send their soothing perfume down to mix with verdant aestan scent and autumn's rich impending cloud. The river blithely burbles on and dances in the sinking sun though nature's cricket choir chirps to show the lengthy night's begun.