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Riven

Sometimes, Nothing is dark enough.
The seeds of his face sink into their sallow sockets,
Offering a bitter twist to his otherwise dead expression.
His sun-dried worms curl around golden chains of faded lockets,
Pressuring them while his eyes squeeze too-salted wells.
Every one is dead.

Once in a while, Nothing is light enough.
No synthetic art can recreate the glistening,
The light-strewn dew, leaking off the seams of ten hundred thousand leaves,
Spring mornings blooming with turgid, smooth-round plant cells,
So saturated with water, their thirst so slated it appears utterly banished.
Sun streaks the sky and birds' paths mimic its rays,
These are highway lanes in a lawless, boundless continent.
Myriad shades of a thousand colors leak through an emerald sieve.
Every thing is alive.

Broken Lens

I close my eyes, I rest my hands.
Meditation, this artificial self-sedation,
How can I explain the sensation?
Elation gained through false procrastination,
I sit here, no destination,
Drowning in my sea as every crustacean.

I see you in my mind, liquid beautiful,
All pirates' troves in all secret coves,
Doves in the sky above,
Love.

My tears that travel never hit the ground,
They evaporate
And fall on you as rain.

It's bright out here, the night feels
Like a fall Sunday, carefree and carefilled,
Shimmering in a cloak of fiery butterflies
That shivers and ripples at your touch,
A silent, color-splashed chain lightning.

This sensation,
This is my meditation.

© All Copyright, Chris Hammel.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.