marginally enigmatic


May 2016

The River Long

In the wake of love gone wrong,
I skipped a stone upon the river long,
where the salmon swim wild and free,
hoping you’d come back to me,
not for only just a season,
but with strong and lasting reason,
devotion pure and heartfelt love,
a genuine blessing from above,
but each passing day it seems,
these desires are merely dreams,
and for them to ever come true,
would be entirely up to you,
and if you know how bad it feels,
when to sorrow your love kneels,
badly damaged and nearly broken,
all sweet nothings left unspoken,
maybe you would change your mind,
and be pleasantly surprised to find,
it’s only you who I adore,
only you and not one more,
but I suppose until that day,
there’s nothing left for me to say,
so I’ll wait with yearning strong,
skipping stones upon the river long.



In the wispy fog she stands there,
in front of the darkness,
like a benevolent gatekeeper,
a seraph without wings,
her eyes showing incredibly gentle sympathy,
staring at me as if I know nothing in comparison,
and I know it to be true,
standing as if she might move forward with the wind,
forward to embrace me in her love,
a love that surpasses my understanding,
but her presence alone is enough to calm the storm of my soul,
a panacea unrivaled in its effectiveness,
a single drop of which can expose Death for the lie that it is,
and imprint onto your being the sacred promise
that everything will be alright,
everything will be alright.


Malicious eyes await in the realm of the abstract,
in a place where there is no time,
only bizarre creations imagined by the source,
there they hold dominion over a blank potentiality,
passing their cruel judgment on all they see,
a damning gaze that the limits of mortal horror cannot describe,
theirs is a hatred eternal,
the mirror image of God’s love,
love reversed onto itself,
etched into the fabric of the universe in such a way
that it may view its own ugliness,
to condemn further and further until all is seen as unfit
and undeserving of any positivity it had been granted,
negative incarnate,
a singular wish of annihilation,
theirs was the first look of disdain.


There’s a frightening absence,
it hits you on the thirteenth hour
when you realize your shyness
has slowly become a virus
and there’s no antidote,
the only tranquilizer is the fire
in your heart that burns away
the hours of each day
until you’re left in the quietness
of a solitude more persistent
than the cycle of the sun and moon,
kept alive only by the music
mirroring your emotion or lack thereof
with precision so flawless you begin
to wonder if what you really are
is the soothing sound of harmony
or the silence that follows.

dedicated to Miguel Aristondo

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