Fickle Spirals

Distant glow--

don't blow it out.

This flammable infatuation is

sanctified and dripping patience.

But patients wear thin

when false prescriptions

after false prescriptions

tarnish their beings and leave them bleeding.

Side effects kick in, to start,

and this heavy heart pounds without rhythm.

But you transpose my blood flow

with that distant glow and you send me

spinning and stumbling

down fickle spirals that twist and turn

with us intertwined between the lines,

but the lines split open

and spit out whole truths and half truths

and lies, in spite of that lack of lines.

Because lines divide us, but never truly.

Now I'm upside down, focused on the ground,

fighting gravity with everything in me.

But I'm losing this fight

'cause my only goal is my only enemy.

So let's follow the rules and be closer than friends,

ignore the bends and just trust me

in this.

You're what I'm fighting for and

you're worth some pain,

but if the strain is useless, tell me now, because until you do,

I'm not giving up.

Jana Hengstler

Just as you turned your head

and headed down a different path,

nostalgia trickled through your thoughts

against your intended steadiness.

Hindrances presented by your attempts at rejection

ended with realization and reason.

Neglecting the initial pain, you

ground yourself in your heavy-heart-overload.

Still unknown,

the energy pulling you back

lures you in,

endlessly requesting your

rejuvenating presence.

Renaissance

We laid in the tall grass, blanketed by shadows cast by the trees around us, and the setting sun’s red rays blazed through the branches and lit up our faces. Time did not exist that day. Our fingers were intertwined and we spoke about our thoughts; they radiated around us and sometimes caught us by surprise. Chris told me about his experience while I mentioned my innocence. We felt like William Blake singing his songs. So we sang to our hearts’ desires, letting the world around us hear the contents of our imaginations. Our songs filled the heavy air with philosophy and wishes; Chris wished for simplicity and I asked for more time.

When I made my wish, Chris untangled our hands and sat up with a stern look of disappointment painted on his face. I didn’t expect such a reaction, so I shot up and turned to him with a glance dripping of anticipation to find out what I had done wrong. To my surprise, he initially uttered nothing more than a languid sigh of inability. Chris could not, at first, find the words.

A strong silence grew between us while the world’s sounds settled down to a quiet roar and the wind ceased to rustle the leaves on the trees. The sky got darker and darker with each passing second. Finally, after minutes upon minutes had fluttered by without a care for curfews or bedtimes, drops of brutally cold water slid from clouds and drenched him with compassionate thoughts and a severe need to show me his mind and appreciation for time.

“The time allotted to us right now,” he said, “is not important.” Confused at the statement, I slipped back several inches in isolation from the piercing words. “Seconds, minutes, hours; when the sun rises and when it falls hard below the horizon; the tick of the watch on your wrist; none of that matters. This is what matters.” He looked me dead in the eye, drew toward me, and kissed my cheek. “Our time is limited, yes, but don’t think on it. Live for the experience rather than how long it takes to get there.”

A smirk of ecstasy was glued on my face; the words hit me like a ton of bricks and woke me up to what I’d been missing by worrying about time. Chris noticed my admiration for his incite and he said, “Keep your fingers crossed, ‘cause all we’ve got is slipping past us.” So I locked my hope tightly in my hands, and I kept my fingers crossed. I kept ‘em crossed like arthritis was my passion. And even now, my hope lies comfortably in my palms, safely hidden from fears of losing track of something that really needs not the slightest deliberation. That day, to me, was a long awaited breath of fresh air, and any other clichés one can list. That day was my renaissance.

Evening Echo

It is in the evening,

after the sun has skipped through the sky

and sat upon the horizon--

but before the shadows have disappeared--

when the air is still and the

grass is calm.

Noises are dulled to a bare hush

and motion is minimal.

It is in the evening when

the echo of life reverberates

faintly,

like a soul lost in its travels,

whispering its memories

in hope that those

memories

will continue to dance across other minds

so that soul may move through its

journey,

with no worries of leaving the world

to only be forgotten.

It is in the evening

that the day creates its life.

Tainted Glass

"I want to believe,"

you said, and my heart flew

down flights of stairs to

a steady surge.

The night we sat in the studio,

singing about days gone by and

dragonflies and cloudy skies

draped with lightning.

You said you missed me,

but I was right there

with you,

pinched into a corner,

back bone aligned with

the wall seams.

And it seemed the walls closed

in on us

just enough to bring you closer.

The window to your left,

feathered with dust,

was cracked in six places.

"Should put it out of its misery,"

you sighed,

but I grabbed your hand and

tugged you back

to show you the window for

more than nicked glass.

I ran our fingers over the fissures;

pointed at fallen leaves,

the magenta and tangerine clouds,

resembling ocean waves and

ballet dancers.

Our misconstrued view

through shards of tainted glass

unearthed our world

and painted a mosaic.

I wanted you to believe in so

much more than what lies

before us.

And you said you wanted to believe too.