Red Maples
Slate cloud cover, undercover —
Wet, like a rebel’s dream,
Dirty pebbles, putty on shoes —
Atmospheres drenched in
Paint-cup slosh — on every gravel
Trail I turn my tired
Eyes —
In the rain, or on
My own —
In the electric rain —
On days like this —
When the leaves
Grow drowsy — damp —
And the maples
Burn —
It makes me wanna
Skip — laugh at lightning — or
Run, run after Will-o’-the-Whisps —
In the reeds, or the ponds, or the sky —
Because what if it’s real?
What then? If it’s actually real?
I take stock, take care —
Give a wistful smile — back —
(A solemn smile, that I wish could be —
A kiss) — oh, with eyes like that,
How could I not miss —
Everything you are, or could
Have been?
But I suppose it’s time to — go —
Run, run, running to
The maples
Burning so brightly —
To phosphorescent moss gliding
Up the gray —
And fiery Will-o’-the-Whisps
Just Ghosting around
The dreary grounds —
Maybe it’s time to start living —
Like that — because what if they’re real?
What if they’re actually real?
And what if they know?
Oh, I’ll follow the Will-o’-the-Whisps,
Because they seem to know a thing or two
About finding a footing:
They always Move On
But they never Leave
For good.
Wondering
When Life is sitting on carpet,
Wondering at the thundering —
Outside, and in my — head —
When it’s mascara and sweatshirts,
And mismatched socks —
And sitting on the edge of the bed —
Does it have a name, Life like this?
Or is it all a dream?
The wondering, and the thundering,
And you?
And even — me?
Should Have Been
Knocks on doors — never come
Anymore — not that they ever did
Before —
But ever since you,
I miss them, even though
It’s just stars,
And halls,
And flickering lights —
I miss the things I’ve never
Known — I miss the things
I almost had — I miss calling
Them — almost mine —
And I miss feeling
So close, and — one more
Day — and it’ll be fine —
I miss — everything that was,
And could have been,
And would have been,
And should have been.