Compact

I would make with you a compact:

sworn to silence

sworn to peace

keepers of each others’ sins

partners in crime.

For now and forever after

let there be honor

between us two thieves,

a sterling bond

that tarnishes with neglect

but still holds strong.

Think not I would be jubilant

should there be more between us

than our silence

and your smile,

for I’m not one to fracture time

and give a piece to all.

And though you’re dear to memory

each hour is dear to heart.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Amnesia

Would you judge me harshly

if I told you plain

of the splendor of a summer's night

that turned my head,

bent my mind,

made me something other:

culpable

expendable

maybe unforgivable

and unable

to speak free.

I would not take that chance 
and risk your censure.

So now I reap the harvest

that I've sown,

and though your gaze does tempt me,

I will stay here on my riverbank

gathering roses while I may.

Oh, let the breeze caress my skin

and whisper stories in my ear!

I'll make of memory

a secular sacrifice

(burned and scattered on the winds)

or maybe stuffed into a chest

of ancient recollection.

Locked up safe 
from you

(and me)

until my dreams' death rattle warns

that amnesia now holds sway.

 This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Struggle

You’d think it would be easy

to give you up,

let you go,

consign you to the dustbin

of my memory.

Not so fast.

There’s no amour

in this love game:

vanity fair

stare-down

shakedown

take-down

of all that makes

good sense.

I would rather

taunt the lion,

prod the cobra,

clasp a viper to my breast

and take what comes.

Do anything but lose.

But though I make of this

a war,

jihad,

an epic fight,

it really is quite simple:

turn around and walk away.

So easy that it’s hard.

No matter that I play to win

in our little hate game,

by craving victory
(your love)

I lose.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

New Flash Fiction

New ST fiction available. This one was for Sunday Scribblings 2: Except by Candles

Thorn

It's just a little pain,

small reminder

(guilty conscience)

not quite sin,

not quite love,

not quite anything

told in books.

Unreal.

Try to look too closely

and it might disappear,

always to return

(nothing ever goes away)

almost true

stuck like glue,

stuck to you

and me.

Pluck it out:
an easy wish to make,

harder to do,
because this thorn that

pricks my memory,

stabs my veins,

and lives under my skin,

I also cherish

to my core.

These slivers of attachment
are not the enemy;

the nemesis lies within
my fickle heart.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2

Gaol

They tried to build a jail for me,

but instead, I built my own

with walls of futile wishes,

crazy dreams,

and childhood fears:

hard as diamonds

tough as nails.

No need for stone and steel

when secrets will do. 

Here I'm safe from 
shadows and sunshine,

strangers and fairy tales.
Inside these walls I'm safe 

from me

and you.

But though I make my gaol

and imprison myself inside,

I am no martyr.

Prophets may forecast my fate

and seers speak my doom,

yet here there is no jailer

and in my pocket is a key.

So still your mocking laughter

and be not proud,

for I have seen the place you dwell.
You are locked up, too.

 This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Crasher

I tossed you out

but you got in again

(somehow)
skulking

sneaking

slipping

through the cracks

and in between

the interstitial spaces

of my brain,

insinuating

yourself

into my soul. 

An unwelcome guest

(discarded fantasy)

no more substance than

vapor

air

or smoke,

but you asphyxiate me

just as surely

as if

you were real.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2