ForTheLoveOfPoetry

California wind mirages the trees, The sunny cold of February caresses cracked skin With a familiar dull glow. The month is long, Ironic. January bleeds to the first, I celebrate birth in a façade. Reality is the mourning of living, Mortality clinging to the breezes That dry my knuckles. Years transition cyclically And all I want is March. The pain of January memories Accelerate aging depression Through a month meant for romance. The irony is time, A passing visage that moves with the air, The pain and joy both fleeting, A predictable annual return That rides the waves like weather.

Am I a dreamer? I thought, perhaps, perhaps yes, idealist disguised. I am but a mirage of realism, Idealism grounded in reality, One foot tickles reality enough, Humor survives. I survive. Perfection once imagined, An unattainable dream, Strive, nonetheless. I am a dreamer, trapped within the dreams that define the world inside of me.

Echoes of footsteps Knock between hallway walls, Walking breeze behind, Reverberation finally falls. Museum of portraits, Echoes consumed by frames, Presumed calm and silent, Yet living memory claims Innocence beseeched, First portrait of demon claws, Tearing canvas, Scar marked saws. Subsequent picture A castle in the sand, Two lovers built everlasting, Dissolved by ocean’s demand. Dated portraits Defined by light foregrounds, Offset silhouettes blurred, Cower growling hounds. Demons lurk in memories, Portraits paint the past. Colors blended grey, black, Paper degrades last. Blur and blend the shadows, Imagined bullets in faces, A violent gun, Metamorphosed painted places. Paint over the hounds, Restore with brush stroke blue, Calamity calmed echoes, Footsteps onward true.