Untitled For Now (any suggestions??)

They dangle thinly on the cadaverous branches across where a girl crosses over
those yellowed memories, fracturable
how he said her shadow casts exquisit, alluring silhouettes on his cream walls
flickering in the orange flames of melting ivory drops.
Somehow the daylight faded though, and the girl fell fast asleep
and when she woke up it was a rare vanishing,
in completely different worlds, gone refined efflorescence
walking on the grains of a red dirt road that unfolds into the horizon
of a heavenly sunset that paints the sky with rocket-stripes,
across where a girl watches white sand slip through cracks of smooth, white fingers.

A Series of Vers Libre

Of the Sweet Spring Morn (Part III of Dissipations)

I remember swinging on the brown, chestnut-wood steps of swings
In the foggy spring morning, so early, against the lucid body of dawn
And how the sun kept trying to break its way through the
Clouds; so thick, so blanketing, as if protecting it from something
And the birds, oh the birds, singing their dulcet lullabies into thin air,
Elf-like melodies, but your words were eminently sweeter than even the birds.

This Is

closed, hidden, put far far away,
it was the only thing that ever worked
but he dug, try something new
and told her simple words, but
loaded words
and so she unfolds
and then, in the process...

finds herself bleeding
left with a gaping hole from the arrow she saw all along
piercing more than just that.
she has lost herself
and the only safety she has ever known.

i watch her, watch as she stares at the dripping blood
onto white, weathered skin
i watch as she stares blankly at her pale face in the mirror
silently cold and deathly still, not a sliver of movement any longer
calm. quiet. surrendered.
it is no use screaming and slaying and ripping now.

she'll tell you she knew all along this is what it would come to
she knew not to depend on you.
or rely on you.
or trust in you.
depend. rely. trust.
nothing more than words on a yellow paper.

i want to wipe away all the crimson drops that are puddling on the floor
scrub away the blushing carmine
maybe because maybe if i scrub the floor clean
i can also scrub you clean
you will be completely gone, you will have never existed.

tell me you did not think it would become like this...
but makes no difference, the scrubbing continues
knuckles raw and bleeding my own blood
knees bruised blue and black.

"dear isobel i hope you're well
and what you've done is right
oh it's been such hell, i wish you well
i hope you're safe tonight
it's been a long day coming
and long will it last when it's last day leaving
i'm helping it pass
by loving you more."
- dido

But I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

what if...
i already have...
everything i think...
i am missing...

On Attending Intelligently to the World

L.B. Meyer:

But to choose prospective certainty over present insight is both mistaken and misguided. It is mistaken because the search for final, definitive answers is an unattainable goal for those concerned with understanding and explanation. For, since the future is open and influential, it can change our understanding both of past compositions and of past historical events. It is misguided - paradoxically so - because the enduring monuments of scholarship, which have shaped men's minds and beliefs, far from being cautious and circumspect, have been those which illuminated a relationship, a work of art, or a past epoch through a bold, encompassing hypothesis.

Now if only i thought it was really that simple...