smells of

chadwick · January 2012

and the beautiful torn thorn
the split in half
of silver
the sliver for each in two
and a kiss stings
and a kiss rots of honey, smells of alfalfa and dew fresh cut
and the old house still has a day dreaming as still as a day dream
from an ill child
wrought iron would be the gate
and when opened invited in
all in sin
walls bleed
walls cry
the floor well-used
the walking is heard in self and in the mutilation of
this every candle a going in the night
and the blend of this light glow down the hall
old records spin
sometimes more cobwebs
ah, its ok just walk by
and the music still goes
fills the house with a calling
this is a breathing
chairs, seats, sofas, parlor the lounge
the hanging of the old woman
and you can hear screams, uh, its more comfortable outside in the grass
nighttime, not the best
but the owls and they do have answers of their own to the mice
and the sunlight through the fog
they do run together, ya know, the sunlight to the fog
of the sky
you can't bring down wet, you cannot
and in brick, and in stone,
old oak walnut
wood work
{would work}
this the carved heart in which
how can I , if I could, love thee
take it from me'
turns away
recoiling against the moon
shining through and shining through
and all you wanna do
is waiting for you

Godfather. · January 2012

this has an "old world" feeling to it, as always brother you nailed it again I like it !

Godfather.

chadwick · January 2012

Godfather,
thank you kindly, Sir. writing amazing me. it takes over lives, a person's ownness becomes in search of something greater than anything else, all feelings struggling to climb higher into one's centered or uncentered self. either way you better hang the fuck on. it is a brutal life in climbing as blind as a cave