Image Source: Flickr (cc)
the brush of a hand
slays in
whispers what
the fire cannot take
grows to an inferno
keeping pace with
heartbeats on the floor,
we are less than fully automatic,
or a bump stock, yet we feel
the trigger.
© Ben Ditmars 2017
~
i smell of the moon –
one last time to kill the pain
and taste rock candy.
~
no, i won’t back down
among the wildflowers
we belong to them.
~
music and chaos
free fall into nothing, the
sounds of nineteen guns.
~
she was an american girl…
a nurse, a teacher, a veteran.
~
© Ben Ditmars 2017
Photograph Courtesy of Helle Gade
as I thought of us
connected at magnetic poles
~
showing the same face
each day of burning passion
calming hellish storms
~
i knew we would
outlast each other’s
orbit.
___
© Ben Ditmars 2017
Image Source: Flickr
the scent of motel 6
now smells like heaven
wrapped in soap,
~
clothes scattered
sleeping off a sample
of chateau.
____
© Ben Ditmars 2017
Image Source: Flickr (cc)
Image Source: Flickr
we became those people overnight,
fantasists who daydream holding
hands and speak in whispers of ‘true love’
like nothing came before a kiss across
the console of a Chevy Cruz or
will exist without space curvature
across the low points of
our spines…
~
i’ve fanned the flames
and lost myself in
your geometry.
____
© Ben Ditmars 2017
Stop by for fun and poetry tomorrow night!
drink the angry waves
with wine –
pass the lightless hours,
God is with us and remaining
breaths are few.
hallelujah!
they are coming.
____
© Ben Ditmars 2017
Photograph Courtesy of Pilar Edler
