Broken Bones & Crying Stones

The whispers through the trees,
and their dying leaves
sing. They sing for me.
And I'll lay in these lush meadows
to see a silhouette
appear on my horizon.

Although, I realize,
the dawn may never come,
this heart never seemed to fail before.
For had life sprung
from the now gone eternity,
I could have stepped into that infinite sea
shining before me.

But my palace
is the castle that falls.
And my pillows see no sleep.
But they dream
of a day when a head
will stay.

I wish I had waited
more patiently for the rain.
But the sun scorched the flesh,
down to my aching bones.

I have hoped in the depths
of a new moon night
that one day I'll lay
under ancient lights again.

And I know my broken feet
walk only on stones
but those stones belong to an existence
far greater than my own.
And I'd walk upon them for miles,
if only for one more smile.

Something Like Drowning

This place seems battered,
hounded and betrayed.
It's tired and afraid.
How much left is there to lose?
When will the clock on the wall
lose its melodic ticking?
Cold coffee on the counter,
went untouched.
Burn all the blank books on the shelves,
to release their words in horrid shrieks.
Migraines of questions unanswered
but too late to ask.
There's no song and no time
to break this fever.
No time in the world.

It's cold, alone, in bitter words but
better left that way.
There wasn't a light on the horizon
that didn't fade away.
And there's no way out of this place.
So reflex kicks in,
can't hold it any longer,
and water fills the lungs,
convulsions stab at the muscles.
And death comes closer every inhale,
the organs, the heart, the mind.
Become a waste of time.

Never Let Me Go

"[...] and I half closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field and gradually get larger until I'd see it [...]"

~Kazuo Ishiguro~

Distracting Still Waters

Harmony in their existence,
they cry out for me to lead them
to the gallows and swim
in human filth.
But the tides will turn,
and I am their filth,
stripped to bone,
I am their hate, their innocence, their folly.
I have led them to their being and hung myself,
in that place.
I am not love,
I am an abstraction, or rather,
distraction.
I am not you,
but I am inside you.
I had made love to you,
on a Persian rug and sucked the poison
from your soul.
I have healed you of the beast
that brought you to me.
Birthed in the precious waters of moments,
but I am your leech,
who abandoned the excess and drinks only the life.
I am me, but I am not me,
a dream within your dream,
not a reality.
But with a fire that burns for all time,
I dance around it,
the mourning of your death.
With charms of resurrection,
dripping sour blood from my tongue.
I am bones, imprisoned in muscle,
in skin.
Hear my fatal yelps as I collapse within.
I am your mistake,
your one, only regret.
In those moments when your roof collapsed,
I passed those roses to you.
I am amnesia,
a glance, a tombstone, a relic,
antiquated youth that guessed the age.
I am your hurt,
trickling down between your thighs,
euphoric cries.
I am the mirage,
in your desert of life,
there but not there,
I wait on receding lines, you will never touch.
Yet I am still....
alive.

My Wish

I wish for the world to fall into your hands.
For the oceans to flow in your veins,
for the soil to roll over your skin.
I wish for the fire to burn in your soul,
for the cool, still, air to fill your mind.
And I wish for all the peace to fill your eyes,
so that only hopeful rain you may cry.
And I wish for your heart to sail in the sky,
and to reach freedom as you fly.

The Last Was The Swansong

There is a well, a hole in the Earth,
it shelters you from all that can hurt.
No one can or will ever find you,
safe to stay there rather than anywhere.

But in those pools I see reflected
a stranger, a face so old, so torn from its mind.
Where has it gone? What has it given in to?
Where was the glory in life?
Was it there and then gone?
Never there at all.

Your eyes reflect light the same as that man in the corner.
The same as the world.
you do not see but shadows, you move right through me.
The things I believe just walk right on by...
or do they trample? I can't quite know anymore than what I'm told.

The only truth heard in whispers behind me,
they say so many things...
but I stay to dream, a cerulean hue,
my color palette the same,
comfort in pain,
it brings honesty to the reason of my being.
What I am, what I forever will be and longed for more,
written on fine parchment paper,
marked in silk ribbon.
No one ever reads.

The Great Gatsby

"He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees."

~F. Scott Fitzgerald~