Poetry

Blockade

The wall of brick and bone and sweat

stands before me, blocking my path

to the end, the finish line and the emptiness after,

for what is after

I’ve achieved all my dreams?

Will it be enough to come to that finality,

the conclusion upon which I linger most,

or will the fire inside

continue to burn until I pass the herd

to stand on my own,

hearing my own trumpets and roars,

my heat beating its celebration

not of my ego,

but simply that I can still go on,

still progress,

still do what I love

and not let boredom brick me up

inside my own head.

Poetry

Our sweet fortress

We build up walls

to hide our little cocoon

of love,

with brightly woven  threads

woven into a snug blanket

and a casing of polished ebony.

The heat of the sun warms us

as time passes,

grasses grow up around us

and wildflowers bloom year after year.

Our hands are constantly entwined,

and will be

until they are hands no more.