I Know This Part

I know this part. 

He flies away. 

But I’ll see him 

Again someday. 

I don’t know when. 

I don’t know where. 

But somehow he 

Will find me there. 

He’ll swoop back in 

To grab my heart 

And hold it close. 

I know this part. 

I let him go 

To find a world 

I’ll never know. 

To walk among 

The beasts and kings, 

Where magic rolls 

And battle rings. 

He wanders long. 

It is his art. 

He can’t stay here. 

I know this part. 

He’ll bring to me 

A tale or two, 

A memory 

Of blood and death, 

Of love and pain, 

Of finding hope 

Where shadows reign. 

And when he does 

He’ll lift my heart 

And hold it close. 

I know this part. 

For when he’s gone 

My love for him 

Burns ever strong. 

He fills my dreams. 

He fills my sky. 

He’s everywhere. 

I never try 

To hold him back. 

It’d be too dark. 

I can’t do that. 

I know this part.

Missing Something

And i expect myself to let me sleep 

while all-around explodes inside 

the empty horrors eating away 

an endless curtain of pain 

Haunting apathetic strides 

destroy the wonder of loneliness, 

and somehow i am left alone 

thinking only of you.

Manufactured

No one is here to think about
The sound it takes to make a couch,
The thrumming of needled machines
Stitching a quick and low thread count.

Upholstery is mostly strings,
All tied together tight and neat,
From colors changing suddenly
In some confusing, humming scene.

The fabric doesn’t know the pit
Of chopped up foam in fluffy bits
That mingle in their flowing ways,
Pushed into pillows ’til they fit.

The cushion covers hear the way
The vacuum pressure takes the stage
To make an unsuspecting square
Shrink down for slipping over there.

And you won’t hear a wooden frame
Flinch or quietly complain
About the staple’s stinging wails
When shot from guns with coiled tails.

The buttons have the worst of it,
Smothered with layers where they sit,
Then pressed between heavy machines
That bend and lock shapes as they click.

When everything is said and done,
The zipping, stitching, stinging hum,
The stuffing, shrinking, tucked and wrapped,
The creased and pleated patterns match.

The screwy squat feet bear the weight,
And everything looks plush and great.
No one thinks about those sounds
When all we see’s a perfect couch.