What were we meant for, we who never feel the inclination to lift a finger to the beckoning call of the anvil? We would rather snake through the gaps left in the construction, like pensive ivy, than strike the hammer down in that steady rhythm; we who may never march or dance on tempo, but feel the pounding explosions in our soul, just as the blooming petals of the morning glory feel the radiant fury of the sun upon their flesh. Our muscles don’t flex to recreate, but yield to the grandiosity of their surroundings, and become servile recipients of majesty and horror. We would pray for light and direction, had it not already swum through every inch of our veins and left us dumbfounded and paralyzed. Every direction circles around our hearts, like an invisible, indecisive serpent ready to constrict, yet too enamored by the sensual undulations of our souls to dare at envisioning a world in which we lie breathless and motionless. Our final exhalations might be a piercing, arctic wind that sweeps the world and leaves a frozen chill blooming within every dewdrop upon the land, growing crystals who reflect and sing a web of tantalizing sorrows, only to die another death each time their beauty freezes and thaws. We would pray for such a death, if not for its cyclical nature, for we know too well the pain of dying infinite deaths. Each time we fly to the heavens, our wings turn to ash, and we strike the earth with the weight of eternity atop our chests. The ground is consecrated in ash, our tears moisten our graves, and our flower blooms again, with a heart and eyes longing to touch the stars, to know their music, and to lie with them in the soft sheets of the ether.
The room never gets bigger,
The more I want it to,
The more it constricts.
I swear the paint on the wall
Is threatening apprehension.
I swear the window is mocking me.
Time doesn’t exist here.
None but the tick of mortality,
And that heavy silence,
The answer to my inquiries.
The silence sharpened
By the haunting memory,
The morbid melody of your voice.
Did I ever have a choice?
Was there ever any other option,
This delicate balance
Between joy and despair;
My mistress is laughter in the dark.
The places the devil goes to be alone,
The basements with broken lightbulbs,
The burden of fears frozen in our hearts;
My mistress laughs in that dark.
Her grin casts shadows on my face.
She breathes wisdom on my ears, when she says
“Our love was never meant for daylight.”
She’s the ghost in the park, swinging on the swingset.
She’s the eyes flashing in a field of fireflies.
She’s the breeze that begs me to fall forever,
And be wrapped in the chaos of her arms, until the end.
Until my body hits the ground,
And my soul explodes into the clouds
Falling as tears, as the painting burns.
The art, the beauty, turns to embers and ash,
Floating in the air as the wind holds its breath.
The light is swallowed by shadows,
As the last memory fades,
With nothing but the crackling complaints of a dying fire.
And, when everything is calm, there’s laughter in the dark,
As beautiful as it was at the start.
That’s who holds my heart,
That laughter in the dark.
It happens sometimes,
That itch you can’t scratch,
That anger you can’t stop,
That peace we can’t see.
It happens sometimes,
That sadness that sticks,
That hope that sleeps,
That guilt that sears.
It happens sometimes,
And I can’t control it,
And you always know it,
And we never show it.
It happens sometimes,
It stays inside,
It eats away,
It steals the day.
Don’t cry over broken windows,
If you don’t know where they go.
Or what’s on the other side,
Don’t wonder why it’s shattered.
Or if it ever even mattered to anyone.
If the reflection wasn’t strong enough.
The breeze could caress
And kiss, the jagged edges.
But what’s the difference?
It still cuts the feet of perching birds,
It still cuts the wind and sings,
It still frames her face.
The one who looks out from the inside.
The one that holds time and ivy,
In her clinched fists,
As it overgrows the blades of glass,
And twirls around her fingertips.
The flowers blooming in her hair,
but she’s not there,
And nobody cares,
Except the one fool,
The one who sees the imperfect image,
And reforms the puzzle pieces,
In his heart, that violent mystery,
The lines of history, nothing but empty veins now,
Between what is left, and what is dead forever.
With a cut in his thumb, he fills them with blood,
And pretends this is love.
But, what’s the difference?
I fell asleep under a cloud of ash today,
With little black flakes falling like rain.
I felt the heat on my skin,
And became convinced,
This life is simply futile pain;
A way to disengage from mortality.
The fine, tight-rope line we step upon
Though, not for long,
For reality begins and ends with us.
Just one step and you’re there:
Start to finish,
Spring to winter,
Star to nova,
You blink and it’s over.
The light at the end of the tunnel recedes infinitely,
Leaving only the cold, dark feelings,
Of Regret, guilt, and anger.
While the unfouled anchor of the soul ascends
And leaves behind this shell;
The ocean floor of the mind.
The swirling waves of sand,
Mocking the passage of time.
Content to exist in their lifeless, timeless grave.
Sinking forever, wishing to become rain.
The little games our eyes play when they’re closed,
The blooming colors to wonders imposed,
Behind resting lids we retreat from those,
Sirens, the violent vibrance of our woes.
Should the light crawl through our skin and bleed bright,
Should our pulses fall dead in the cold night,
My solace is you, sleeping next to me,
While my eyes are closed and I hear you breathe,
What more must I see, other than this dream?
Just these silent rising and falling tides,
Of the breath in your chest, my lullaby.
My beautiful lie, my fading sunrise,
What wispy clouds sought to steal you away?
As Persephone was thrown to the grave.
Let my eyes cry, until they bleed me dry.
Let my heart pound into and through my spine.
Rend me to ribbons and send me to Hades,
Never forgiven, this fading vision.
When the sky is silver and grey,
And lead lined clouds strangle the day,
We find them creeping closer still,
These frightening feelings and their thrills,
So far behind as they trace us,
Through our lagging scents, they taste us,
Those dreams where we are trapped inside,
Those nightmares where we’re free to die.
With ancient whales swimming above,
Towards the sun, escaping us,
And elephants climbing the trees,
Just to find how far they may see,
With little lizards flying planes,
And chasing flies in sordid ways,
Cats reading in the library,
Flipping through obituaries,
Some yahoos eating the tree bark,
Wondering if that’s who we are.
Wake me from wherever I roam,
Take me to my prisoner’s home,
For I fail to love my freedom,
And I hate the man I’ve become,
Now my fantasies are often,
From the inside of a coffin,
True it is, how spoiled I’ve been,
To take life and wish for an end.
Cheers, to the nightmares we were,
And survived once more.
Drink in the heaven’s sojourn,
and open our doors.
Taste the sunshine’s warm kiss,
And drink in this life.
Try and forget all this,
To enjoy the night.
But, when it’s all over,
Don’t close your eyes yet.
So soon we’ll be sober,
As never we met.
Don’t let your light grow dim,
When darkness creeps in.
Remember where you’ve been,
As spring melts ice thin.
Rise and become anew,
Fulfill your duty,
Rise and take in this view,
Of our father’s beauty.
The thought of resting, without your blessing,
Sent shivers up my spine.
The kiss on my brow, as it’s all quiet now,
Left a request in my eyes.
Though, what is a request, without a strong grip,
But a prayer for more time?
No, it is but with capture, and villainous rapture,
That you shall be mine.
Roll over tombstones, and howl to the moon’s home,
That dusky, darkened night.
Pick the star for your quiver, the spirits for your liver,
Pluck your eyes from my sight.
For with each reflection, a flash of detection,
If my teeth would glow, the more you could know,
The speed of my flight.
Shake the birds from their roosts, as ever more proof,
To the depth of my sin.
Catch each fleeing feather, as my promise to never,
Stray from this bend.
Chase the flow of the river, fill the bowl of the beggar,
As much greater men,
Have fallen far from confession, led yet to reflection,
Of their untimely end.
The clock is ticking, the well bucket dripping,
Fly far from these lands.
Send prayers to your light, for by the break of the night,
You shall be, in the heat, of my hands.