Thunderclap.

This heart, a beat full on vacancy
has warmth stuck in fissure;
the hardest thing for me to do.

This intention, an atom pledged
a curtain shy of helplessness;
the silliest thing for me to do.

This moment, a metaphor made of leaves
is bearing down on me
the firmest thing for me to do.

But these hands, their diffidence
in defiance to lavish attempt,
are scrambling uneasy since weeks;
untethered to make amend
with troubled verses that scream
rhymes, assorted tentatively.

Maybe therefore,
those curtains are drawn apart,
impaired by
flickering sunshine
that baked coquetry;
for this pixiliated heart's undeserving,
an absurd
Sunday afternoon
astounded by poetry.

Bellicose.

A strike strike strike

come trickle, slide down

this time time time

feather the missing sound;

tame, persuade an 

etched crestfallen her,

subdue, don't hammer

home anger;

if only just

to prepare and provoke,

to evoke

to elicit and choke,

to clasp, gazump and extort

hours - withering though mine;

for days which pine

full clocks of corpses

starch'd souls and stage signs;

or is one to beget..

deceive a wooden bench

that's left to smother, 

to temper the chagrin

wasted in debt,

semi borrowed in mire;

laden with fury are

memories riddled 

with latitudes of grief

of inherited jealousy

maliciously crumbling

on our knees.

Its tonight,

an aching evening 

self appointed in acrimony.