Watch this
Colorful helix
Spin so quick
It dazzles
As the eyes
Attuned
Catch glimpses
Of the God
Whose mind
Is light

As day coats
Living canvas
With spectrums
Bold
And vivid
Through experience
Hardly certain
Our senses
Feel
At all

Until that
Rainbow bends
Where palettes
Come
Full circle
And shadows bleed
Like raindrops
With beads
Of falling
Paint

Knowing
Dream-filled clouds
Hold stains
From dripping
Pigments
While neon tears
Unsettled
Hail hues
Still taking
Shape

Emerging
Without grace
But the sin
Each shade
Mistakens
As building blocks
Unquestioned
For an image
Made of flesh.

– J. Pigno

This doesn’t feel
Quite right
As fans
Among the silence
With that whirring
Ever gently
Begin crawling
To their halt

Leaving me
No voice
But an air
Of sudden whispers
Moving softly
From what distance
These deaf ears
Just can’t disclose

Through my stale
Yet living dream
Where heads
Appear in doorways
And pale sunshine
Carries meaning
Pinning shadows
On those walls

When new dust
Is thick as light
Birthing dullness
Spawned from reason
Hiding answers
Within specters
Stealing pasts
Before days done

As they crumble
Out of frames
Growing hands
Not made of canvas
But some substance
Mixing colors
Holding shades
I fear are ghosts

Which dance close
Like lovers blessed
Lost to time
And moral choices
Begging flames
While longing candles
Carry torches
Down this hall

Bringing noise
That scares me still
Knowing night
Is nearing closer
Bearing phantoms
Fate’s illusion
Names the quiet
Peace forgets

Stopping screams
And clocks themselves
Hanging visions
Outside windows
Barely normal
If I gander
Even briefly
At their face.

– J. Pigno

What voice
Could I leave behind
If silence
Is all I seek –
Writing alone
Unnoticed
Besides this lamp
Left dark?

Afraid how light
Might bleed
Across these pages
Heavy
Where spaces
Drained and waiting
Just lay like puddles
Flat –

Each margin
Holding rain
Thick as phrases
Feeling empty
From that storm cloud
Called resistance
To exposure
Of old mud

When my soil
Catches truth
Beneath gray
Yet spilling vapors
Among climates
Better suited
For bad weather
I confess

Is my talent
Speaking best
Still believing
Easy answers
Offer solace
Not redemption
Finding pleasure
Often fades,

Though its demons
May remain
Despite fearing
Repercussions
At the hands
Of God neglected
Amid lines
I keep inside

Like my calling
Toward unknowns
Wedged between
These tired eyelids
Of a book
Whose tattered cover
Houses secrets
Under wear

That no verse
Can hardly share
If the motive
Falls afflicted
To such dimness
Bearing torrents
Without sunshine
On this desk.

– J. Pigno

No authority
In this world
Amounts
To the power
Of fiction

Except
Maybe God’s
Own will
Whose pen
Is writing it all

Where stories
Built from realms
We’d dare
To dub
Mysterious

Comprise
Old shelves
Inside us
Collecting dust
With fate

When genres
Bent from time
Sell plots
Some call
Fantastic

While others
Seeking miracles
Find dreams
They’d wished
Before,

Each binding
Showing seams
Of such pain
Through flesh
Inherent

And that hurt
Thematic evidence
How our love
May conquer
Death

Across pages
Neatly tied
Beyond volumes
True
But heavy

Within margins
Housing spaces
Holding secrets
Plain
As script

Amid mirrors
Speaking tongues
Though reflections
Claimed
By phrases –

Every tale
Another lifetime
For this cast
We name
Ourselves.

– J. Pigno

These hours
Drenched in sleep
Are the eyes’
Most sad reflection
Of days spent
Dreaming nothing
Behind what door
Stays closed

As if such sheets
Could speak
From tears absorbed
Within them
By memories
Losing sequence
Between old pillows
Bare

Across this mattress
Strewn
Where years
Through fading sunlight
Form pools
To dangle respite
Simply passing
Time not had

Like hope sought
Fairly close
Beneath our lives
Unconscious
Still resting
Without answers
Losing meaning
Though we gasp

For breath held
Long at night
During comas
God intended
Spell depression
While resisting
Waking soundly
Come each dawn

Finding slumber
Has its price
Choosing leisure
Over pleasure
Taking solace
Killing purpose
Upon learning
Work is death

With little reason
Left
To dwell among
Those ruins
Seeing action
Hinder progress
As we conjure
Idle threats

Snoozing late
Like quiet bombs
Lazy soldiers
Making exits
Facing failure
All too easy
If that triumph
Means we nap.

– J. Pigno

Closure
Burns like hell
On the branded
Ass of cowards
Whose recompense
Is herding
These gains of pastures
Sold

By farmers
Peddling grass
Where cattle old
And weakened
Show sores
Across their bellies
Thick with flies
Which fester close

To remind them
Riches bleed
Running red
By show of nothing
But successes
Oozing trauma
Leaking hurt
Like open wounds

When what’s right
Is not a gift
But an entitled
Sense of fortune
Stealing futures
Without answers
Leaving lies
Behind as threats

As some legacy
Fallen ill
To which fate
It cannot bargain
After planting
Faulty reasons
Within seeds
Of empty souls

Across soil
Tainted well
Among debts
And arid ruins
No one person
Could establish
Is worth planting
Second hand.

– J. Pigno

Tag this poem
Fatal –

My stunned
And mortal rhythm

From a heart
Which spoke
In tandem
With raw verse
So short
Of breath.

Each day
These final words

Sought relief

By telling
Nonsense

Thinking minds
Should grow
Enlightened

To one cause
I’ve deemed

Unsure:

This lethal dream
Called art,

Or that lie
We pray
Expresses

Such love
Too unrequited
For real
Proof
It should exist.

Believing now
I’m sick

While ignoring
Every answer
As some monster
Fear created
Deep within
My swollen
Head.

How aches
May never
Cease
When their pulse
So damn
Discordant

Throbs distinctly
Within tempo
Of this cadence

Marked
For death.

Each vein
Blue and pronounced

Like bold phrases
I might suffer

Protrudes out
Above both
Eyelids

Letting doctors
Laugh
At truth.

They never
Could agree
On what symptom
Was authentic,

Which pain
Was more than
Lyrics

Of that song
I played

Inside.

And yet
Their diagnosis
Falters hard

Where music
Lingers,

Though I contest
Barely matters

Knowing fate
Had other plans.

Stuck souls
Will go and read
These old ravings
As pure gospel-

All my suffering
Unintended
As their bible
Of lost
Faith.

With that
I can agree
Is a suited end

Unquestioned.

No rebel
Wins
From trying.

I always
Wrote
Half-assed.

– J. Pigno