A.J. Huffman

Garden Writing 

Hunger and whiskey drip from barren 
branches, become tangible textures of lost 
humanity.  I close my eyes and imagine 
myself a seedling, nubile and sun-washed, 
but I cannot complete the physical 
connection.  I remove my shoes,  
dig my toes deeper into mudding soil 
as I search for a magical conduit  
that might just cut a path to the past. 
Moments pass like pantomimed centuries. 
Still I am left empty and cold  
and clutching the extremities of solitude 
as if they were the last 
breadcrumbs falling from the hands of peace. 

A Mirror of Gold Against Your Soul 

proves that I am as good as you

that you are not master
of any self, including mine

shows a perfect portrait of emptiness

ripples with dark refractions of time
and loss
and a hatred that continues
to consume

shows that I have
outgrown the need to save
dying things

implies a life
beyond the suffocating embrace
of your eyes

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