Do you remember our first funeral?
How terror, unnatural poise, and a light blue dress
bound our fragmented shards
so tightly that they fused like plates of armor,
unyielding and permanent—
a mold to shape past, present, and future experiences?
Ones devoid of the therapeutic scent of lavender?
Yeah, me too.
And we still seek the warm hug of purple blossoms
underneath a smiling summer sun,
taunting us from breezes that cannot touch our skin,
and the reassurance in the face of overwhelming loss and upheaval
that we will be okay because we are loved.
And we are. Loved. Okay.
Despite being an unrecognizable lump of tarnished metal
electroplated and reforged too many times to count,
bits of funerary fabric adding a mosaic of color to the gray,
we are strong and beautiful like Vermont wildflowers—
a sea of scents swaying among long, emerald grasses,
infusing the wind that rushes from now to then
with a healing perfume that will cease to exist after we are gone
and leave him in a molten suit gasping for air.

Style Score: 100

Unassuming, she bides her time,
slumbers curled in on herself,
potentiality’s vibrations encapsulated,
resonance her twilight lullaby.
Dawn breaks warm,
night’s chill melting away,
absorbed as nourishment;
she stretches languidly,
testing the confines of her quilt,
unfurls pink and fresh and strong,
face to sun; rising, ready,
sweet perfume on autumn air.

Style Score: 100

I’ve oft succumbed to subjugation’s crush,
been scarified by sorrow’s caustic calm,
and felt the frantic beat of anger’s rush

—but—

have never dropped the H-A-T-E bomb.

I hold that weapon, ticking, in my soul,
unwilling to unleash it on the world,
to watch it flare, expand with godless smoke,
consume the light and healing I deserve.

An earnest smile outshines the sparking fuse.

They’re blinded by a still and gentle grace
unknowing of the heavy peace I choose,
the strength it takes to snuff abuse’s flame,
enforce a fragile, self-effacing truce—
forgiveness is a battlefield embrace.

You tempt me, beckoning with sugared silk,
allure a golden promise whispered on the tongue.

I cannot resist.

Eyes drift closed,
chin rising as I inhale the intoxicating scent of you—
slowly, deliberately.
Exhale,
desire declared with silent hunger.

Teeth graze my bottom lip,
anticipation building
until your pliable stiffness yields,
enters my mouth in a welcoming embrace,
igniting on contact.
And then the explosion—symphony of maple
melting as I swirl my tongue,
exploring every nuanced velvet crumb,
every crystalline grain of bliss
in a slow cadence of flavor—sweet oblivion.
Each nibble, an encore—
from first taste to lingering ecstasy,
you fill me.

my fear of you is healthy, keeps me sharp
and on alert— a safety net crocheted
by love, not purled with ego’s tattered tarps.

Stay.

I shall not wish this faithful fear away.

Its selfless patterns form organic art,
each line, each curve depicting chances weighed—
a fleeting thrill, or pieces of my heart
protected by the risks I do not take.

For them, I’d bleach my neon yarnscape soul.

The Machu Picchu steps I need not see,
nor paradisal nuclear atolls—
for if adventure wove my earthly leave,
who’d treble stitch my family’s gaping holes
to safeguard from the frostbite of their grief?

Style Score: 100%

I vow to God this dull December day
that faith and love will greet the coming year
as valiant, righteous knights opposing hate
unarmored and outnumbered, fate unclear.

My sword of truth shall drip with cobalt ink,
each slash, riposte, and stab incising verse
beneath corroded alloy chainmail links
’til evil waves the white, all ranks disperse.

But while this vital battle rages on,
I’ll raise my shield to spare the innocent—
its coat of arms: Mosaic of a Mom,
poetic scene with eighty thousand dents—

ensure their laughter’s heard above the roar
and ugliness of Moralistic War.

Each year’s a fresh collage of memories,
most blurry, insignificant, and pale—
but some recur as vivid reveries.

Please.

Of those, I cannot choose a favorite tale.

How could I rank a moment as the one
I’d save to an impenetrable drive
if suddenly my brain became corrupt,
deleting every snippet of my life?

No love is more important than the next.

I’d sadly watch each pixel fade away
from Betamax home movies in my head,
all color leached, my screen a snowy gray,
still hanging tight to this year’s bonus speck—
the extra day of Mason loves Mammay.

It’s in here somewhere, shaking, out of sight—
this gratitude I keep alive for me
that’s terrified by recognition’s light.

See!

It cowers, there. Don’t get too close; it bites,
a mangy mix of actuality
surviving off mere scraps of sacrifice,
resilience, sense, and stale tenacity.

My family gets first dibs on hearty foods.

I feed their inner praise with love-steeped roe,
exotic sprigs of righteousness in bloom,
and loaves of patience-risen sourdough,
ensuring that aplomb is absolute—
oh, look! My gratitude is nearly grown.