The woman that came from the forest
Who lived with the baker and the florist
Even they don't know her name
The woman who came from the forest.

Others say she came from the sea
sheltering in
a wild
golden oak tree
there's more than one,
tales of pride
and glee,
and everyone knows of the woman
from the forest
and the sea

a broken heart

she scattered the letters across the table

in a way

it used to drive me crazy

She used to leave the change

splayed out across the table

in a way that drove me crazy

she used to leave all the doors open

but even the air in the house

mourns her

so I don't close them

because if I moved the letters,

the tears would come again,

burning hot and angry, 

and if I used the change

whatever I bought would end up in the trash

and if I took all the kale out of the fridge,

I'd end up

buying more

just to remind me of her

so I slouch through open doors

and cook at a penny scattered table

and stare at rotting kale

the air from the fridge, cold,

feels like my heart

and right then it cracks

so through modern life

one would wonder

why

there is no cure for

a broken heart

My Garden Is On Fire

A world
A thorned world
With happiness
emanating
Its peaks
Mountains
Its sadness
Valleys
Canyons that do not end

My mind is like a garden on fire
Burning
Burning
My garden is black
It is charred
Like clouds 
Throwing dark shadows
Obscuring the truth
 

butterfly castles

the butterfly castles
were the king's 
before he abandoned the throne,
left Laervia, went mad, and died 
no one could blame him,
he would have gone mad either way
that was before before they came
before all of us died
before I lost my heart 
all they want is our hearts
our very souls
the essence,
some say
but they took the bodies for dessert
only I survived
living in the ruins of what used to be life
what is in my future is no longer a secret
my destiny is revealed
how could no one notice when so much of me was missing?
but there is no one here to know-
so I went ahead and lived what was left of life
which is like drinking from a shattered glass
thousands of butterfly castles
gone to waste
for they will come for 
me,
too.

Abandoned....
Vermont without slopes
abandoned....
rivers without fish
Abandoned 
in Bedminster 

Lost,
lost
alone 
unfair
suddenly gone 
a gaping hole
with ragged edges
Abandoned in Bedminster.
 

Quiet

In quiet places,

even in the quietest little nooks,

there is always a roar of unspoken words and memories.

For the quietest places are the most curious.

Laugh

I stare at the splintered wood
of the little chair I like to sit in
and it reminds me of Goldilocks,
and that makes me laugh.