The Co-Author Poem by Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III

Sometimes,

he'll shove his golden scruffy face
into
his agnatic parallel
until he exudes a new answer
or covers the unbridled valley
in his blood of aged charcoal..

Somedays,

he is a sharpened table cloth,
wiping the veiled animus from
the barnacled gasp of unwashed lines,
flaking across the salty atmosphere
and strands of murdered hair.

Somewhere,

His greatest discovery was left
tangled in the prarie web of an
unsung candle.
When the strum of echoes
didn't stumble their silk murmur
through the woeful meridian
of swallowed prayers

....and he cries...like a new born devil.

howling his wilted fist
in pursuit
of an ageless rainbow.


Somehow or another,


as they always do,
he will burn with the scent of his
closing autumn..

and the grand stature of youth
will grind and shave down
to an arbitrary enigma
of yellow pantheons and shivering reflections
of raked suicides.

With a scraped smile of a
jasper meadow on the
snowflake of light,
one hopes
his pink oracle always remained diligent..
yet unscathed,

As he melted his final, smokey
exhale

into the dream of a morning avenue.....