A Whisper

Do you believe,
that gods can bleed?
Have you seen enough,
to conceive of,
divine mortality?
What would it mean for us?
We who must develop love
Of vulnerability,
Of blood,
Of death.
All so we may draw
our final breath in peace,
with our minds,
and our dreams,
drifting
in the cosmic seas
of infinite night,
and lovely,
lonely starlight.

The Face

It calls, but never answers.
It takes, but never receives.
This hollow, enchanting dancer
only comforts and deceives.

It glows for the sake of shadows.
It bends the will and mind.
This siren’s song, upon the gallows,
kisses hearts and swallows time.

It dwells deep, in tasted tears.
It leads men to wasted years.
Hollow screams as judgment nears
It is the face of faceless fears.

Pulp Dream

I wish I could break myself down
into simple blocks.
I could see which pieces were deformed.
I could finally understand what was broken.

I wish all the people walking around would shatter
into piles of parts.
I could sift through them and see
if we were made of the same things.
I could finally know if I was as alone as I feel.

I wish this uniform world would compress
into neat, little cubes.
I could pick them up, study all six sides, and find where I end
and the rest begins.
I could finally paint a picture of my place in the world.

These clean divisions are never born.
All the thin lines I’ve drawn have been torn,
twisted, cut, decayed, burnt, returned, and reformed.
Vines grow through the mortar.
Every attempt finds disorder.
Flesh stripped
raw, it slips,
as I try to climb a border
that doesn’t even exist.

Fear of Roses

Why do you frighten me so?

You are but a delicate rose.

Your thorns have withered and fell,

and yet still,

I dare not risk your touch.

Your scent is a subtle, distinguished beauty;

a stimulating sensation.

Your fragile elegance begs of me

quiet admiration.

I could run my fingers across your leaves,

and watch you for hours, swaying in the breeze,

but plucking you, and keeping you, It seems obscene.

I fall to my knees and shrink.

In the shadow of your form, I fear disappointing you

more than ever before.

One day I will pluck you, and place you in a vase.

I’ll sit at a table, and watch you whither with age,

but I know today is not the day.

I sit at my desk, the air thick with regret

That you’re swaying in the breeze and not asleep in my bed.

Seasons

The cloudless, sunny skies of winter lend a crisp highlight to the washed out, barren colors of things slowly dying. However, the death is not eternal. Unlike the death we speak of when we think of the initial concept of death, this particular death is inevitable each year, and yet it is succeeded by life. One cannot think of winter without imagining the spring that will follow. One cannot assume that the dead tree on the hill top will never flower again.

I find this strange, but for reasons that are not obvious. It seems cliché to view the dead of winter as simply the season that precedes the subtle vitality of spring. In many ways, it is indeed cliché. However, what I find particularly strange is that, during summer, one does not think of summer as that which precedes death. It would seem, in human understanding, that life is not that which precedes death. Summer, as it is typically portrayed, is the suspension of death and a symbol of life. It is the cure, as if death were something to be subdued and negated.

What is obvious is that the seasons are a continuous cycle, contingent upon earth’s rotation around the sun. What is not obvious is the human essence we lend to the phenomena. If you place the seasons on the face of a clock, even in a scientific sense, it would be entirely appropriate. However, if you apply the seasons as a metaphor for the lifespan of a single human, it has limited effectiveness. Spring would surely represent birth and infancy, Summer could represent a life well lived, Autumn the later adult years, and finally Winter, a cold conclusion.

But humans don’t have a second spring. We don’t live a life that revolves in seasons. When our winters reach their peek, we never get to feel the frost melt away, nor have the promise of the rejuvenation of spring. We die and it is eternal. Why do I ruminate on such nonsense? I’m not sure, but I can’t help but wonder, how much of our physical world do we inject with our human essence? There is no humanity in the changing of the seasons, and yet there is such deep humanity in our understanding of the concept. What else are we making human?

Pickup Line

I want to feel special,
But there are so many buildings;
Towering, overbearing.
Filled with countless souls.
I want to feel free,
But the rules restrain me,
Just as my ribs
Restrain my lungs;
Each breath is juried.
Escape would mean death.
But, does death mean escape?
Don’t answer, it’s getting late.
I want to feel something,
Besides tired and scared.
My, you look lovely.
Could you help me feel something?
Don’t go.

Ghoul

I am cursed

by a passive, leaden burden.

My vitality is strained.

For why, I’m not certain.

A disease, perhaps,

crass and furtive;

my eyes; shattered glass

beneath fast flowing curtains.

The foundation is cracked,

all the lumber is rotten.

I sit and I laugh,

at all the hope I’ve forgotten.

This home, how it moans,

as I lie here alone;

if I let no one in,

then no one can go.

It’s too rotten for guests,

I guess it’s for the best.

Mold has infested the pantry,

rats have nested the gantry;

To eject me from this tomb

would take true necromancy.

Hush

So now you know,

how thick the darkness is;

how heavy it rests

upon the chests

of those who sit alone.

How lucky, blessed!

You’ve traced your steps;

pressed by lonely, growing regrets.

You’ve passed the test.

I now profess, “Welcome home, honored guest!”

Pre-pleasantries, I must confess.

You’ve nothing left, save disease.

Your estates been cleaned

of all that gleams;

windows and doors,

and all between,

but hush!

Hush, don’t make a scene.

All the glowing eyes agree:

There’s nothing worse than being seen.

I plead:
Relax your neck,
Roll back your head,
Think of how
you’ll soon be dead.

Now, hush.

You’ve had your chance.

Hush.

Valley Shade

The pain is real. The fear is real. The shame

is real. But, the future and the past, they

are not. This day, at the bottom of the valley,

between two steep slopes, is battered by

rolling threats of tomorrow and sliding scars

of yesterday. Mass wasting will someday level

this perverted landscape. But, why wait?

Why not just give up the illusion? Or not.

The shadows may shorten the days but,

at noon in the valley, the sun will mockingly

pass overhead and warm our faces.

Gone until tomorrow. Remembered always.