Jordan Busson

progress is when the inconceivable is made truth.

i am not a writer; i merely throw the dice.

it is time to dream of sleep

reaching for the sky
on ladders of glass

idolatry is empty until we become the object of our desire.

i greet you like a stranger

waiting for love to fly in…

kiss me in that dark of time
that lies between thought’s waking
and the soul’s ascension
to dream

a poem cannot bring back
life-fire into the empty husks
of clay
and once-person

we all have passed through
the shadows of hate, abuse
and strife
again and again

how long is a piece of hope?
we stretch ours between us
a thread to hold -
and it frays

jealousy is a cancer of choice.

i can’t ignore the bleached bones.
their accusatory stare.

never
in your life
will there be a single
moment
in which you are not
beautiful
and free

it is my bubbleday today, and i am happy.

you write your heart onto
the accepting page
a blank slate
for your sins thoughts story

smokey form of half-dreams
playing in the shadows

when i paint
i feel like a child
reborn in prussian blue

when a rule stands in the way of progress it must be discarded.

freedom of speech is the fundamental craving of the human mind.