I’d do anything
Not to write
Or face these thoughts
Which linger
At the back of my mind
Complacent
When avoiding fears
Untold

On a whim of speech
I’ve chased
In haste
From feeling lazy
And pursuing words
Indecent
As these truths
Made insincere

During bouts
My silence breaks
Left alone
Where phrases envy
All this damage
Sitting pretty
Within lines
I cannot seize

Like expressions
Wearing thin
Findings holes
Instead of bridges
Losing answers
Down their crevice
That extends
Towards quiet death

Leaving bones
So far beneath
Highest ground
Of said intention
Marking sand
With failed exposure
To reveal
My deepest self

Passing ribs
And rotted flesh
Among rocks
Which hide my carcass
Empty now
Of bloody meaning
From such art
This desert claims.

Down its gap
I’ve finally
Fallen;

Just a skeleton
I’ve become.

– J. Pigno

This quiet
And tired gray
Whispers rain
From boredom
Beneath what veil
Can answer
In the dark
Of lingering clouds

Which fail
As listless veins
Whose fallen blood
Translucent
Denotes our pleasures
Missing
Behind that sun
Obscured

Where daylight
Measures fate
With proof of life
Uncertain
Still hiding now
Among us
Between these hours
Pale

Lost like
Private stars
Shining hope
Through freedom
Unknown to those
Who seek them
But bright
If felt for sure

When mapping
Empty skies
Dim from lacking
Purpose
Yet streaked across
Their vastness
Concealing God
Within

Masking
Heaven’s place
Amid these downpours
Heavy
While tears
Bring revelations
On afternoons
So bleak.

– J. Pigno

Our heartbeat
Takes for granted
Each breath
We dare to take
As exhales
Softly wasting
Their miracle
Pushed from lungs

Expelled
With gentle grace
While the moment
Pauses briefly
To assure us
Time is fleeting
When denied
That second wind –

This fate
We often chance
Like tomorrow
Hardly waiting
For these lives
Which soon diminish
Through expending
Too much air

Or exhausting
What remains
Near an end
Not always chosen
But denied
In sudden beauty
By one swift
Yet tragic kick

We proclaim
Has stolen fate
Though it’s God
Who’s merely vanquished
All our foes
Before they surfaced
Without battles
Long and sick

Tasting glory
From that source
Where those gasps
Of sweetest ether
Linger lightly
On our palettes
Tasting heaven
As we pass

Drinking wine
No man can claim
Is replacement
For each instant
Wasted soreley
Seeking pleasure
Left abandoned
By design

Trading wind
And beating pulse
Losing blood
Despite their effort
To sustain
What wishful thinking
Keeps them dreaming
During death.

– J. Pigno

Let me take
This opportunity
To tell you
What won’t come true;

Those dreams
And teenage ambitions
We believed
Would help us escape –

That poetry
Straight from the heart
And paintings
Losing their answers

Among colors
Stressed and faded
On a canvas
Stroked too weak

After years
Of slaving away
When believing
Lies were essential

While pretending
Our fates intended
Could somehow
Appear out of air

Like a portrait
Missing in frame
Still the picture
Lacking distinction

As an image
Blended with silence
And colors safe
Without voice,

Camouflaged
Though they remain
Apparent to some
Who can witness

Expression
Freer than wisdom
Which determines worth
Beyond death

Lasting
Unlike our jobs
But akin to bonds
We establish

Between each person
Agreeing
This need to love
Is divine

Where it speaks
Through art as our faith
Fulfilling hope
Left neglected

Even if fighting
Defenseless
Alone and knowing
We’ve lost.

– J. Pigno

I’m dawdling
Across this page
As if we had never
Written
Or declared
Such words indecent
Before these eyes
Can shame

Our phrases
Joined at hips
Like poems
Said in tandem
Where worship
Places commas
Between what lives
Get read

Through naked truths
Proclaimed
From the mouth
Of talking devils
Whose idle minds
Unquestioned
Go dreaming lies
Out loud

Believing love
Was made
For the sake
Of cunning linguists
With silver tongues
Demanding
Their lust
Stay florid prose

And pain
That open book
While clauses hang
Indifferent
Between each sentence
Waiting
For reasons
Well explained

How flesh
Is much like verse
And print
My only answer
If sex
Still begs the question
Do lazy hearts
Hurt most?

– J. Pigno

Below that tree
She lays
In the shadow
Of nearby awnings
Beneath
Two massive windows
Like eyes
Among cultured stone

Where feathers
Between each blade
Of grass
Still wet from morning
Cradle
Her empty vessel
Which housed
Such delicate life

When once
They opened big
And welcomed air
As freedom
To dare these skies
Their limits
While soaring
Beyond those clouds

Crashing
Within our tracks
Through chance
So unexpected
Speaking of
Fallen natures
For men whose wings
Stay gold

And tell
How futures last
Not long
Until we witness
This fading thrill
Of fortune
Land harshly
On new ground

Since money
Just can’t save
What God himself
Distinguished
At the hands
Of innocent suffering
To teach old birds
They’re wrong.

– J. Pigno

We just keep
Forgetting God
As if he had
Never listened
To these prayers
Which see us living
Through their words
Still feeling wrong

Like each breath
A steep expense
For believing
Empty answers
In our hands of
Failing science
Trying hard
To prove Him gone

And agree
How faith is dead
On behalf
Of mortal wisdoms
Killing kindness
From obsession
With the proof
Some call disgust

Like contempt
At having grace
While salvation
Seems transparent
Behind pulpits
Pledging freedoms
Though we slave
For missing souls

Losing hope
Near every chance
Seeking truth
Within some office
Working late
And never sleeping
Hiding dreams
Inside our heads

Knowing angels
Call us still
Beyond tasks
Of futile purpose
Drawing meaning
Where there isn’t
Giving signs
Which whisper love

Pledging art
As divine will
And this flesh
Its holy vessel
To commit
What acts inspire
Or redeem
From showing zeal

For expression
Making sense
Out of madness
Called existence
Fallen far
Among old demons
Trying new tricks
To distract.

– J. Pigno