Wax Lips

I’m thinking about writing songs, I make up things that I just sing to myself, but I haven’t composed anything since high school (and those were really basic things).

The last time I saw you I kissed you on wax lips.

The last time I saw you, you put my hands on your hips.

The last time I saw you, we were ready to ditch

This world

For each other.

The last time I saw you we went out dancing

Partners and partners, but our eyes kept catching,

The last time I saw you, you kept on telling

Me that

I should remember

The last time I saw you we made the big plan,

The last time I saw you we were ready to land

The last time I saw you I thought I’d see you again.

I thought I’d see you again

Another Dead Man’s Voice

They turned you into another

Dead Man’s Voice

That washes over the living

Wears them down

Brings them near.

They turned you into another

Grey Stone Statue

Where children aren’t

Supposed to play

They do, still

You’d like that.

They made you a bill

An edict, a chapter,

A Memorial Highway

They shook hands over you

They washed their hands over you

But long ago,

When your chest still fell

And you broke Statues

Shouted over Dead Men’s Voices

Ignored the edicts and Memorials,

You told me something.

That I will never share.

I will not let those words

Change into a quote

I will not give them to mouths

That will let them die on their tongues.

I will keep them with me,

So as much as they try to make you

Just a cold statue

And a few faded words

There will still be a bit of your breath

Left in this world

Rabbit

Runs like a rabbit from a shot that can’t catch her,

But the rope is still hers alone.

Always feels it in her,

Always feels it ready,

And she’s sinking like a stone.

And she can run,

And she can leap,

As far as any can go,

But at the end of the day,

It’s such a short way,

To the end of the rope.

 

– Continuation of one of the first poems I posted here, I finished it a while ago, but never actually wrote it down. Sometimes I sing this to myself while doing dishes.

The Red Bird and the Wolves

I forgot that I’d come into the forest looking for a little red bird. A long time ago I had followed it in, tracked it by its song that seemed to promise that something would change if I kept going. The trees grew dense and I grew lost. Everything looked the same. Every sound was the wolf coming to eat me up. The wolves around every corner ate up the red bird, ate up the time before, ate up everything except the trees and the overgrowth and the snapping twigs.

I had stopped looking for a way out when I finally found it, emerging at the exact point I had first seen the red bird. All the colors were too bright, the green of the hills, the brown of the path, the red of all the birds singing in the sky. They brought with them all the memories the wolves had eaten up, and that these birds had been here all along, waiting for me to come back from the forest.

But in the forest the wolves were waiting too.