your heart’s a block of lapis lazuli hidden in snow like a shrine of prayer flower stems in your throat left my blighted shell came like spring daffodils silent prayers & refrains of innocence before sprawling rain came the cup i drink from which often spills repentant honor among men’s a vain thrill my moral compass spins whenever you enter my thoughts the tapestry of homo sapiens i can't defend but my heart’s pursuant of crime obliged to grow like moss raised at a young age i was sagacious only to be left spiritually lost confined to places i didn’t belong engaged with vices strong feelings before an effaced moon my mind’s a series of detours into tombs like druids we imagine more than we find i came out the river splintered in real time my own home’s a forest path subdued by tall pines i no longer need the stars if i have your eyes
i love you & hope my faults don’t deter you coaxed flame until we were birthed you make life more real other women are here but have no appeal i’ve accepted i’m no one else’s i can’t pretend to be mentally here my eyes brimmed in the lyft lost footing in your absence required spires the mornings after & nights before but it’s only holy when i hold you & unclothed you we were exposed to florida required belief we were altered by the ocean-ruin my prurience was held captive like attempts to convey in verse that which eludes words your faults i absolve i’m thinking of our undeveloped polaroids how the mind invites mysteries that the heart avoids
alabaster blades of grass spellcaster not meant to last moved faster fell inward the sea’s a circle of stones placed in a cage habitual worlds taking shape displaced human race braced for being seen a life-long departure a flux of seeds my realized being & other curses questions for stained glass kisses given depth at last occupied by distraction stepped into yearning with deep pockets held my id beneath the faucet & washed it still toxic mind’s lush with paranoia but if we had kids we'd spoil them i'd annoy them & teach them smiling’s the darkest art apart from not growing purity’s a chasm i don't fathom the medications i’m taking make me productive in phases we can stand to face each other naked hands placed at our sides after a while our breaths may coincide
-- J.L. Moultrie is a Detroiter and multi-genre writer who communicates his craft through words. He hasn’t been the same since encountering Patti Smith, Sylvia Plath & Hart Crane. He considers himself a modern, abstract imagist.