Out of Fashion

In yearning hours late and dreary
Deleted drafts once read so clearly
Written down with earnest passion
Out of place and out of fashion

-Galwyn

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Next Time It’s Written

Next time it’s written
Perhaps we’d be more than a chapter
You’d be my words
And I, your substance
Substantial in your eloquence
So I’d not feel impertinent
We’d run cover to cover
Yet uncovered ourselves
Maybe next time it’s written
We both will be smitten

-Galwyn

Inch

From an inch of my life
You saw but never see me
Eleven inches more
I crawl but you won’t receive me
Ten digits more
Which once ran through your hair
Two shoulders to shrug
No more burden to bear
Take what you want
And then take all the rest
From an inch of my life
Hear the pulse in my chest

-Galwyn

Explanation

It finds its own migration
In my mind
No invitation
No common time
Or correlation
In drug-less
Recuperation
All of this
No explanation
Wanting love
Is mutilation

So take my nights
For contemplation
Take my tears
My dehydration
Take my chest
Before it caves in
From this searing
Aggrivation
Your voice
Is flagellation
Your goal
Is devastation
Turning words
To fornication
From my pain
You find elation

-Galwyn

Patience

Standing by a crumbled bridge
Where her and I were meant to meet
Halted in this fated path
With reconstruction incomplete

Yet I don’t linger like a hound
For what use is distress
Time shant hasten for a sound
Nor guarantee duress

And so I stride along the shore
Taking in the scenery
Confident that only time,
And route keeps you from me

Perhaps along the way I’ll find
Another place to cross
When looking to the world around
No time is truly lost

And when the bridge is finally done
I’ll wander to your arms
With memories upon the shore
Assuring you’re the one

-Galwyn