When is it, then, that we find reprieve?
Is it when sorrow and fears take their leave?
No, we go on, dejectedly we grieve;
Throughout our joys pain lays its seeds.
Oh, the roots strangely entangle our dreams.
My God, they grow furiously deep.
We tear them out, and rip and scream!
Until free from them, from out we bleed.
Oh, you ivy, you viral violence,
What fires might burn you into silence?
What poisons might tempt your retreat?
How do I kill you without killing me?

Restless Reaper

My words are gone, all given away,
To the puzzle pieces of your heart,
Ghosts put together by lines I say,
When we’re alone and in the dark.
Your shifting shapes, my marionette,
Your little games aren’t over yet,
But what could I give, with nothing left,
Besides my heart, your final theft.
May I stay silent for a little while,
To watch your violent, longing smile?
May I stay my lips, to simply see,
If my quiet touch invades your dreams.
You, the lovely reaper in my garden,
Set down your tools and catch your breath.
The spring is not the time for harvest,
But time for sprouts to wake from death.
Sow your seeds in me, my dear.
Just as poetry holds future near,
Labor no more and stay your fears.
Watch this grow; Lay with me here.
Budding blossoms do crown your hair.
Your peaceful pollen flows through the air.
Your patient waters nurture and care,
For the precious flowers who grow so fair.

The Art of Sin

Divinity and art seem to contend with one another, and I find this strange. The kindling of creative fires always appears to be an unseen spirit, or energy, which bursts forth from the soul. It’s never clear where this inspiration originates, and so I concluded the source to be transcendent, and I the conduit. For, as far and wide as I may search, I never seem to find where the tingling desire comes from; That desire which begs me to run a pen over a blank page, and decorate it with silent words, singing of their birth and humming with beauty. Yet, the strangest thing is the closer we get to divinity, the smaller we become; The deeper our spirituality, the tamer our desires. What good does this serenity do for the chaos of creation? Does inner peace not stifle the desperate movements of inspiration? Such a balance of heart chains the brutality of art to the cold floor, in the cell of a contented mind. To be divine is to be unmoving. God cannot be written, painted, spoken, or sung. What is all cannot be more, or less, than one. Though, what is beauty if not imperfection? What is man but an incomplete image? Our mortal eyes will never gaze upon the golden, gated grandeur of the heavens, we may only brush stroke our dreams of heaven upon this earthly canvas. After my death, surely, may I float freely among those clouds, and drift forever within the firmament. Yet, while I live, let me feel the weight of my body and mind. Let me feel pain and desire in this fragile heart. Let me be ignorant of my immortal soul, not intimate with its promise, lest I bid adieu, due to futility, to the furious ballads we throw, echoing into the abyss. By all means, climb towards heaven, reach as far as you can but, when you crash to the earth with your fragments of grace, form them into stained glass for us all. Find your forgiveness and redemption in the beauty and torment of creation. Whether free will be our curse, or fate our master; Whether we have but one life, or need never die, may this mortal soul still move through time to find its own Truth. May we be the immediate cause, but never the ultimate end.

Titan’s Shadow

Your lofty shadow, looming over the silent screams of night.
The evergreen titan, reduced to a bold black outline, against the sky,
What whispers in me do you seek? I have none, I think.
I may soon be empty, but for the mindful tending of your form.
Just as the threats of winter fall softly at your feet,
So are the promises we never meet, leaping from tree to tree,
Singing in the breeze, Circling our souls as falling leaves,
And yet, you’re free.
Free from harm, and thoughts, and dreams,
Dripping in the misty weaves of shadowed melodies,
My midnight evergreen.

To Wake In Love

A crest of messy, restless hair
That waving tide upon her brow,
Brushed by rushing morning air.
The night we spent is over now.
Unprepared for her departure,
I wondered when her eyes would open,
To see the wounds left by the archer,
Who finds his mark when love is chosen.
Will she choose to leave me here,
Without the kiss, whispered promise.
Will time and distance interfere
To loose her grip upon this fondness.
Pray, if this be the poor man’s bower,
Let her sleep another hour.
Pray, you sky, let loose a shower,
So she might stay another hour.

Office Chair

Dry, cracked leather on a wooden frame, some office chair somewhere; Crimson colored skin with gold buttons punched in like droplets of the rain. Could use some sand and a stain, but I won’t complain. Honestly, it’s a tragedy that no ones felt the pain of its aging, there’s no grey haired brain to bring back the long lost memories and nights of revelry. Its just sat patiently fading in a basement, some natural, captive soul to apathy waiting for a craftsmen to pass and see the masterpiece it once was, and could be, with just a little love. A few stitches, a spit shine, oil rag and a patient touch but, the bad news is it’ll end up in the the trash, and that’s bad luck, because I’d take it for half a buck.

A Morbid Love Letter

I was listening to The Smiths and daydreaming, staring off wishfully. My mind was empty but for one thought; I was thinking of how the crushing weight of mortality made every hour of my life so valuable. The seeming finality of death made every moment I tightly held, slowly kissed, and firmly embraced your heavenly soul, every spare second my eyes met your own, every soft whisper you sent to my ears, every sigh your breath set on my lips, it made it all worth it. I pace in circles struggling to believe that any afterlife I’m offered could ever be sweeter than the one life I shared with you. If I ever met your soul again, among the ether of the stars, my heart would pound with love and pride, as the cosmos weakly shuddered, and shielded its eyes, and beheld the blinding beauty of your light; It would be nighttime and raining, The Smiths would be playing, and I would be dreaming, until I opened my eyes. Until the song slowly died.