Flesh-wound Manuscripts (vol 1)

                   Desktop pens journal below bled-yellow bulbs of a den's residential perimeter. A domesticated refrigerator breathes in the dull faded background. We all have morbid tendencies: even her among two narrow wrists. Window curtains pulled to the dingy corner of a dusty apartment bedroom. Dark secrets die within sunlit exposure of a dreary winter afternoon. January feathers dwindle aimlessly between withered boughs of a deserted tree; aligning frost-bitten sill imagery. Myriad flocks fled south to scenic enhancement. Seasonal migrants of suicidal ancestry.
                  Schoolhouse teachings: I tried to tell her before the Fall; pride just gets in the way. A bloody needle in abundant hay burials. Beaten and bruised on farmland equators; passionless heat got in the way of flesh-wound manuscripts:
                      
                       Flesh Wound Manuscript vol 1)  
                       
                       In 2,000 years we piled on meaningless centuries of pointless ideas and desires.
                       It is now time to retire below the fallen rain
                       of vain attempts at sorrow. I loved her once: a soft ocean-tide coming in from the vast Pacific.
                       Evening descended a blue-green wrath of sea-crest foam . 
                       Sand-dunes peaked and assembled footprints molding shadows of a dying December.
                       A frail feted breath followed her echoing voice outward: from the autumnal earth; and into
                       lost forbidden heavens of heaviness: a new grief awakened many stale quaint mornings
                       desire retired.
                       From new eyes of a foreign face; amid casual neighborhood walkways
                       across windswept city streets she hurries to meet no one. Towering skyscrapers that refract heat at a day's transgression. I yield to changing traffic lights;  then assume depression.
                    Dusk carried nightingales that rest below clouded skylines; along silver trees: I could not see them; but only heard a distant cry from night-branches: I knew it was too late. The death of song, the bottomless serenade. A panic shrouds my diseased soul: my heart assumes position.
                      For I knew the soul that mirrored mine.
                      I saw the eyes that peer and pry. (crying out to thee)
                      I've felt the arms that know all strength.
                      I've tasted tongues bittersweet
                     (that speak no more to me)