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The Second ComingI.
I struggle because God told me that he doesn't like slackers,
and it is almost winter, and I have to believe in something.
His desk is so tall, I like to sit under it and stare up at where
the edge of the desk meets the ceiling and his hand tapping.
I don't like the cold, but God says that it builds character,
so I trek through it to get to something I once loved and it only
leaves me feeling small.
I was never a child, I told the interviewer when he climbed on
top of me. I was never born, I just appeared.
He wasn't listening anymore, but I kept telling him.
God sank into my skin when I was sleeping one night,
in a church somewhere east of here, and
He speaks to me now.
"God doesn't exist," huffed the Interviewer Man.
There was this man who said that if you spoke to God,
then you were praying. Lots of people pray in snow
And silence, but if they're silent then how does he hear them?
This man also said that if God spoke to you,
then you have schizophrenia.
I don't know what
The Flowers -wilted-She'll give me the garden if she can lift it, turn back time if I need it;
The things I find are mine to keep.
She is a saint, a goddess, a crook, a fable of festering goodbyes,
and if I finally get around to deciding
she will always be nearby.
I always find her, like a coin on the street;
What I find is mine to keep.
The letters she wrote me, the times she left me, the crosses she broke;
I'll fall asleep as if I never woke.
She is the ocean, the walls, the curtains, the glass, twisting and revealing
what I told her to hide.
It isn't healing, it's just oozing and oozing; she is in my insides.
The bottle she left me rocks on my table, spinning and spinning.
She looks in my eyes.
The flowers she left me
never opened, played games on my ceiling, sang softy as I weep.
Hers to keep,
I was always hers to keep.
Frigid . He MeltedI fell in love under a mighty pine
to a man made of snow.
His touch was bitter and
his kiss was slow and frigid.
I decorated the tree with orbs
of my imagination
and hung lights so I could
always find him
waiting for me beneath the tree.
The night he told me that
he loved me,
it was negative ten degrees
and his words were ice,
and his breath was freezing;
I fell in love on Christmas Eve.
The morning he wasn't there,
all he left me were my love letters
and a yellow rose
growing from the ground
where he once stood.
He had a heart of water
and never found his perfect fit.
He was afloat in a sea of
uncertainty and memories.
I smelled the pale petals of
my loss's final goodbyes
and began to wonder
when will I fall in love
with a man made of spring
I'm sure his words will be bright
and warm. I'm ready for spring.
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