Cosmic.

This is something that was totally inspired by an old friend and Master Poet, Kosmogonic.

As my thoughts go numb to the silence that transplants the old, fog-horned days of glory, fingers randomly closing on memories floating by in the air, I am a sitting duck, without you.

As the poisonous swirl of clearing smoke winds its way into my lungs, a snake wrapped tightly ’round the limb of a lone tree, my bite is venomless without you.

As the sun slips behind the warmth I once buried beside you; your essence courses through my veins, but quickly dilutes into my own, I am pondscum without you.

As the smirking distance tears and chews up the many miles between where I am and the salvation of your fingertips touching my deepest and most sensual parts, I starve; so hungry without you.

As dewy drops roll down the leaves of fuzzy memories and recollected tendrils of smoky laughter fade and reshape into the ends of the world, any strength has abandoned me, utterly, muscles turn gelatinous without you.

As my words and their lack of meaning shoot like darts from the mouth I have come to regret and disdain, that open sore that won’t heal no matter what I do in attempt at affecting a salve, a festering wound, without you.

The Word.

The curse,
of the poet,
was born,
in the tongue;
a thought,
turned to word,
and the damage –
is done;
the art,
of the sonnet,
has risen,
to fall down;
a truth,
trumpeted,
all the world,
around;
the words,
of a poet,
like grains,
of fine sands;
that scatter,
and remain,
wherever,
it lands;
a story,
still unfolding,
being written,
across the age;
each muse,
every trauma,
becomes another page.