you brandish most beautiful eyes at me
as our paths cross
in the city.

a blue as pure as the winter sky
makes me think that
to see you cry
would plunge my heart into
a roaring blizzard.

yet I can imagine the light
of the sun
shimmer upon a single
tear.

I could bear the thought of
seeing you weep with joy,
as the first dew of
blissful spring runs down your
snow-pale face.

and in a second you pass me by.
and you are gone like
a snowflake in the wind.

you share with me such hurtful words
that are a balm to
my kindred soul.

they hurt as they leave your summer wine lips
and drip like molten wax
upon my chest,
and heart,
and mind,
and touch my soul...

verse after verse.

you entwine my eroded coil
within you moonlight glow,
and tell me all the things
I so hungrily needed to know.

you wrap my broken hands
within your silken ones.

I crave to part your lips,
and share in such a melody.
that starlight hum.
that midnight medley.
that dark and ever-glowing sonnet
that brought you to my desolation.

I yearn to kiss them with my ones,
those lips as warm as starlight flame,
as perfect as the heart of night,
as young as time itself.

but mine are blistered
by frigid winds,
and bloodied from some fist
I've recently had to stomach...

I don't want to be here, all alone in the darkness of what it means to be human.

I don't want to be here, all alone in the darkness of what it means to be.

I don't want to be here, all alone in the darkness of what is.

I don't want to be here, all alone in the darkness.

I don't want to be here, all alone.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to be.

I don't want.

I don't.

I.

witnessing the cracks
in your feeble armor
tears a whole
through a heavy heart.

I can feel the scars
upon your broken coil
and the salt flats
below your eyes.

he spilled the blood
of his bitter fists
upon that cardboard frame
the world calls your body.

he cleaved at the brittle coal
that is your aching bones,
yet you still carry yourself
upon the winter winds.

he spat in the ocean of your soul.

yet you hold on tight
to his arm,
as if he is the anchor
that keeps you safely in the bay.

and all you need do is obey.

fearful of the storm beyond,
of the deep blue of endless
possibility...
you stay within the confines
of a jagged little shoreline.

he is the rope aroung your nape
and you can't help but hang yourself.

still as the wind
would allow me to be,
witnessing her
as vibrant
as only a dream
would seem.

eyes of green,
eyes of dream,
eyes of fading leaves
in a hot August sun.

still as the earth
would allow me to be,
absorbing her
as impermanent
as only a revery
could ever be.

eyes of green,
eyes of dream,
eyes of shaded clay
under blades of sage.

still as the fire
deep within my heart
could burn.

gazing longer than I should.

still as the the gentle ocean
of her chartreuse eyes,
reveling in her
marble meadow,
with those twin ponds
of green,
in a passe-partout of
ebony locks of wilderness.

gazing longer than I should.
gazing longingly
at her eyes of endless summer,
eyes of green,
eyes of dream.

it's the way the sunlight hits her eye
that makes her look so enticing,
like a glass of whiskey
on a thirsty day
of never being
enough.

it's that brown being lit up golden
through the windows
that tease a glance
into a broken
soul.

it's my fault for always finding myself
out in that desert, with nothing
to drink away the need
to forget about and
walk out of the
desert.

it's that jar of honey she sees the whole
world through that keeps pouring
and calling me to take
a drink of her
whiskey hued
irises.

my only defense is uttering out loud:
name's Ander,
and I'm an alcoholic.

A muse will amuse herself with little interaction that spark the fires of artistic endeavor.

A muse will amuse herself with the poking and proding of the weather beaten beast that boasts of great skills in the caging of thoughts and feelings.

A muse will wither away in a place where there is nothing to amuse herself with...

Therefore she will search for that one hunter that can track down the wildest of ideas, the one that can take down the most dangerous experiences and tame them for the masses.

She will land on the shoulders of that one predator that can drag prey into the dwelling of the many and feed them all with the morsels of this glorious hunt.

So hunt on, dear hunter.
Hunt on and be the plaything of thine muse.

you ran away with me
from the monotony of growing up
and into the deep cobalt yonder.

we chased the sun
and battled the moon,
yet she always won
and gently
tucked us away
under soft midnight.

we skipped through crag
and mire.
we waded the river
and touched the emerald blades
of summer grass.

we were free.
we were children.

you were older,
almost a woman.

but I kept you young
and wild
and free.

that is why you liked sharing little wonders with me.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's this child
Clinging to every
Step I take,
Reminding me of
All the spears
Our mother
Chucked at our eyelids.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's a little rebel
Churning the bile
Inside my guts,
Screaming at me
About all the sharp edges
Of the road we walk on.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's all this responsibility
Weighing me down,
And dragging me
Towards the edges
Of this broken glass path.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet theres an old man
Whispering from the haze.
He tells me to turn back
From this destiny we share.

All that he wants is nothing more than for me to leave him alone.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions hide in there.

her eyes drip venom,
incapacitating
all she glances upon,
turning a summer sunrise
into decay.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions move beneath the surface.

her lips skitter,
chasing down
and breaking apart
even the sturdiest of mountains.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions crawl under skin.

her teeth gnaw,
eroding
all she touches,
turning a broken promise
into gossamer strands.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions dance within her skull.

her chest heaves,
filling up
and emptying out
the horizon.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions bleeding throughout.

her heart roars,
shaking
all she treads on,
turning a lifetime
into dust.

she's got shadows in her hair
and I no longer care about the scorpions.

her hands shake,
holding my
immortal coil
in a death grip.

she's got scorpions in her hair.

I've such a secret
to share
with you,
yet all I can do
is whisper.

In such a cacophonous world,
my whispers are
no longer melodies,
but the tapping of
ant feet in a field of green,
under the twisted steel
of man-made birds.

I've such a secret,
but no one
to listen
to me
whisper it.

I need the rain.

Hard,
broken,
dessicated limbs hang
low and heavy
like twin pendulums
of shattered lead.

I need the storm

Cold,
cracking,
drained roots coil
notted and gnarled
like a cage
of sun bleached bone.

I need the flood.

Dark,
engulfing,
suffocated leaves wither
rusted and dying
like an endlessness
of time-ground sand.

I need the void.

don't lie to me.

I've heard those echoes
with every setting of the moon.
I've heard those whispers
with every sunrise
that's ever kissed
the parchment of my skin.

don't lie to me.

I woke up with the constellations,
remembered in the silken threads
of mother time's embrace.
I cleansed my eyes of the gossamers
when starlight was but a distant promise
of a reality yet to burn itself into existence.

don't lie to me.

I couldn't cut it as a weaver
of honey ladened words
heaped upon the nebulae,
derelict between the flowing stelar algae
and that roaring darkenss from which
all things come.

don't lie to me for I have bathed
in the cold light of eternity.

There's beauty in sorrow,
if you don't let it grind you down.

I wanted freedom,
But I have been trapped
Between a rotting lemon
And a hard place
For my bones of glass
To bask in the sun.

There's beauty in sorrow,
if you don't let it grind you down.

I wanted shelter
From the acid rains
That came spitting out
Of their ignoble mouths,
Pattering upon my rind
And souring the lemonade.

There's beauty in sorrow,
if you don't let them grind you down.

I wanted love,
But there wasn't any rainbow
At the end of that
Cursed *** of gold
They're all chasing feverishly.

There's beauty in sorrow,
I tell myself, lying as I see nothing else.

An ox did once tell me a tale
and I listen to his voice unveil,
An ox did once tell me a tale.

It starts with hooves and ends in May,
I dare not, a word I dare not say,
It starts with hooves and ends in May.

It speaks of mountains old and new,
Of such grandeur I did not knew,
It speaks of mountains old and new.

He sits atop  a sailing stone,
And moves without moving a bone,
He sits atop a sailing stone.

An ox that moves by standing still,
It’s so massive, no wolf dares ****
an ox that moves by standing still.

The stone is cold and shrinks away,
It does not sail in light of day,
The stone is cold and shrinks away.

Under the moon a stone shall dance,
And one could tell with just a glance,
Under the moon a stone shall dance.

It melts away under the sun,
And when the night is done
it melts under the sun.

He tells a story of his crime
I listen to his voice, sublime.
He tells the story of his crime.

The ox was young and fell in love,
He did at first see stars above.
The ox was young and fell in love.

A lady red, of skin pale-white,
The ox with love he couldn’t fight!
A lady red, of skin pale-white.

She came to him and whispered loud
Of how her dream would make her proud,
She came to him and whispered.

He told his story to a point
He would not let me go beyond
He told his story to the point.

I listened close and said right back,
“I know your pain, I lived it too”,
I listened close and said right back.

“I knew a lady, pale and red
And I did take her to my bed,
The lonely lady, pale and red.

She looked at me with deep-blue eyes
And I thought I found paradise,
I lost myself in deep-blue eyes.

She came to me and whispered high
That now we have to say goodbye…
She came to me and whispered high.”

And so the ox told me a tale
As I looked in a mirror, pale.
And so the ox was told a tale.

thousands of wasps
swirl around me
in a painful display.

I sting myself with insecurities.

hundreds of rats
drop from above
in a torrent of decay.

I plague myself with insecurities.

packs of wolves
dance around the stars
gnawing rabid at my flesh.

I rend myself with insecurities.

gargantuan paws dig
away at the dirt that
I was made of.

I bury myself in insecurities.

ursine hunger rips
and tears into
a still beating heart.

I starve myself with insecurities.

frost wrecked skies
crack above me
and fall sharp into
a dancing mind.

I wish for honey,
but I sting myself
instead.

I don't deserve anything else.

To tread the depths
of long promised
Death.
I long for those
forsaken ashes
of whom they
promised I would
Be.

To wade the shallows
of promises
and stolen childhoods,
in search of
broken glass
to cut away
the ribbons of blood,
and join in silent song
the ones fogotten.

To sink in frigid waves
of bloodied eyes
and shattered teeth,
in desperate need
of tethering.

To bleed away all warmth.

To let the floods
turn crimson,
and the skies rain rust.

To drown in the emptied
innocence of life.

I stare at those dark markings above,
Knowing how tired I am.

There's a fetid vibration humming
Through my bones,
Through my blood,
Through my every thought.

I'm so exhausted,
Yet I can't sleep.
I'm so exhausted
That the only pill
That could put me to sleep
Is a stray bullet.

There's a rancid susurration chiming
Through my flesh,
Through my bones,
Through the very essence of my coil.

I'm so tired
And in need of sleep.
I'm so tired
That even the cold steel
Of the train tracks
Welcomes me
As the only pillow
I can see myself able
To rest my head upon.

There's a rotten pulsation howling
Through my blood,
Through my bones,
Throughout.

I'm so drained
That an eternity of sleep
Just wouldn't do
Anything...
My only solace
Are the minute finger prints
That echo a memory of starlight
On a darkened ceiling.

I must have been born some day,
some time ago,
somehow,
against my will.

I must have been born because I have this body coiled around me.

I must have been given shape some day,
some time ago;
molded into something
my soul doesn't recognize.

I must have been given shape because I have this body coiled around me.

I must have been held in motherly arms some day,
some long while ago,
because I remember her saying
that she can take away this life as easily as she's given it.

I must have been held because I remember how many times I cried and asked to be held.

I must have been crawling some day,
many scraped knees ago,
through the broken glass of
always feeling so small.

I must have been crawling because my knees hurt so very much.

I must have been walking around some day,
some time ago,
somehow,
against the frigid wind.

I must have been walking because I remember that unforgiving blizzard.

I must have been swimming some day,
some time long past,
somehow,
holding on to dear life.

I must have been swimming because I have saltwater deep in my lungs.

I must have been running some of those days,
awhile ago,
from something
I keep trying to forget.

I must have been running because I feel so very out of breath.

I must have been given a body some day,
some time ago,
somehow,
against my will.

I must have been given a body because it is suffocating me.

Because I don't feel welcome in it.

Because I don't feel safe in it.

Because my very soul wants to destroy it.

Because I don't want the memories it shelters in its bones.

I must have been given a body because it is forever coiled around me.

I must have been given life one day because I want to give it all back.

Sheep don't know
The meaning of the word
Rules.

They know only the barking of the dog
And the howl of the wolf.

you shimmer under both the moon and the sun
as I stare deeply into you,
lost in those roasted chestnuts
that stare back at me.

a night so dark
that there is no starlight
to gaze longingly at,
but for those constellations
that embroider your fae visage.

starlight
from deep within
your heart's fire.

I can see myself
find a future
here,
beneath this most heavenly vault.

empyrean strands whisper
above those windows to
your effervescent soul,
beckoning me to
burn away all that pain
and sorrow
that I carry upon
my mortal shoulders.

in a second you light up
my entire azure sphere
and chase away
the spiders and the vipers
that hide in the ever-dark corners of
my remembrance.

goddess,
I beseech thee
shine your firelight upon
my yearning flesh.

whispers in the wind
of a remembered
tomorrow
that will never
come to pass.

shades of broken glass
trapped in the crimson
soles of tired feet
break apart in
a multitude of
echoing patterns.

a hunger for something
without shape,
without substance,
without the traced outline
of neverending desperation,
howls deep within the throat.

bottled yesterdays
shattered on the marble
of ever-shimmering amnesia
creaking like bones
inside an hourglass on the edge
of an untangling rope.

all that is left is to hope
for a quick bite of the river
that turns all tomorrows
into forgotten yesterday.

Barely seen,
Barely known,
Barely understood,
Barely remembered.

Why did you have to go before
Eyes could see you,
Hearts could know you,
Compassion could understand you,
Love could remember everything about you?

Why did you have to go
In spite of the fact
That I do and will
See you,
Know you,
Understand you,
And remember you?

Why did you have to go before time could do the same?

a chance to deliver
auspicious nuggets of gold
flaked hope.

a small change,
yet one remembered.

a step back
from scorching ground,
powdered leaves,
broken bone
and
years of never.

a small step,
yet one remembered.

a fear unknown
to all the numbered
beats within a heart.
terror lingered,
envy of a self I've yet to be.

a fear,
unforgotten.

I went down those stairs,
And through that door,
Between the ancient columns
Of old and forgotten stone.

The air was made of crystals.

Hope danced above,
And around,
Flickering golden and silver
In the cold winter lights.

The air was made of crystals.

I could feel again,
As if the numbness thawed
In that single moment
Spent by the fireplace
Of someone willing to
Listen.

The air was made of crystals.

And I went down those stairs,
And through that iron door,
And past those frost covered columns.

And the air was made of crystals.

lost fragrances of easy summer mornings
when all she knew was the dirt
between her toes
and scattered throughout her
golden hair.

lost melodies of lazy summer days
when all she knew was the water
of river susurrations
and warmest shortlived rains
caressingly falling.

lost bites of ripe summer evenings
when all she knew was the sweetness
of rose-red lips
and shared apricots with she
of auburn hair.

lost glances of torrid summer nights
when all she knew was the lust
of her youth
and the wine shared between
first loves.

lost times of summer's end
when all she knew was gone.

I miss the nights spent
Under warm candle light,
Writing poetry together
Under the sheets
Of stormy skies.

I miss the mornings
Slipping through the fingers
That play with strands
Of wine red hair
And porcelain skin.

I miss the days that
Could have been,
If only I would have been
Brave enough to see
Myself in your eyes.

I miss the evenings
Caressing the glow
Of your life-giving,
ever-beckoning lips.

I miss the moments
That never happened.
I miss what we've never shared.
I miss the love that might've...

Ice is cracking
Under the immense
And unforgiving
Weight of lead skies.

The world is falling,
Plunged into
The vast and punishing
Waters below.

Her lips dissolving
With the cosmic
And unwavering
Chill of the void.

A last breath reverberating
Below the colossal
And vengeful echoing
Of a final word.

Uttered in mourning
Of a momentary
And fragile
Life.

you
you dared tell a lie at
the very end
of each and every verse
that snapped out
of that flaming mouth
of yours.

I felt the guilt
of not quenching
your eternal thirst.

spinner of magmatic threads,
supine in your cocoon of lies.
weaver,
deceiver,
you told yourself the same lies
that entangle me in the susurrations
of your feminine death rattle.

I felt the weight
of not quenching
your ever burning thirst.

weaver,
deceiver.
remembered silken fingers
crisscrossing the empty
spaces between my heavy
heartbeats.

I felt the vibration
of failing to spot
that beautiful web you've spun.

believer,
deceiver,
weaver of all the lies
I needed to hear.

tell me,
are you content with being
all alone in your widow's web?

I like the way you hide the wisdom in your hair,
Those starlight-silver strands collecting in your midnight.

I love the way you shy away from your age,
While the shadows dance within.

I adore the gray brush strokes
That entwine
And blend
On raven feathers
Of dark black hair.

Can you write with a broken pen?

Can you send out the words that reverberate within your soul if the inkwell has dried out?

Can you scribble away at your own thoughts if the paper has been hollowed out by grief?

Can you author a better future with nothing but your bleeding fingers?

there's green all throughout
the silver droplets,
coiling about the warmth
of powder-blues and roaring magentas.

there's green all throughout
the golden threads,
winding around the jubilee
of cream-whites and vibrant citrines.

there's green all throughout
the copper clays,
swirling between the renewal
of xantic petals and extatic lilacs.

there's green all throughout
the joyous weeping
of spring.

If Romania was a color, it would be a funeral color.

It would be the color of remembrance, and the color of forgetting.

It would be a color that screams to be avenged, respected and mourned.

It would be a proud color.



A color that remembers a glorious past, mostly imagined and embroidered with more victories than defeats.



It would be a color of joy, yet hidden in silence.

A color that boasts of courage, but asks for submissiveness.

A color that speaks of kindness, but greedily hoards.

A color that's been censored.



The color of Romania would be that lack of color, that void that takes away all other colors,

and shoves them down below, under the writhing belly of the thick-scaled beast.

The color that waits to burst out with deep reds, and magentas, and blues.



It would be that color that would not stay dead,

would not stay mourned,

would not roll over,

but hammer against the void and bring forth the kaleidoscope of hope.

You are not an island.
You are not the land beneath your feet.

You are starlight and heat,
the primordial chaos,
the cosmic repeat.
You are ever-changing
into something incomplete,
yet always flowing
beyond your two feet.

You are not the land, nor a lonely street.
You are not an island.
You are not concrete.

they have to cut it off
because it's rotting
and the viscera
spewing from it
carries a stench of
Desperation.

they have to sever it
and free my writhing body
of it's bleak and pestilent
corruption,
that oily echoing
of coarse
Lamentations.

they have to cleave it away
so that my mortality
could be postponed
for as long as possible.

My soul.
It must be cut.
It must be severed.
It must be cleaved free of me.

This amputation
is the only thing
that could save
my life...

Petals of mold on your heavy eyelids
remind me of the moment when I died among the kindling...

blood dew flowing with the choleric thorns of your eyelashes
feed the scarlet weeds of final bitter twitches,
and the harsh blades of the cardinal sun
burn my last too-naive sentimental nostalgias...

She saw him standing there,
looking at her, austere as a
cliff upon a shoreline,
unmoved by the sea.

Yet she knew that every cliff
eventually crumbles
against the unrelenting waves.

And she was unrelenting.

it comes and
goes,
one way or
another,
from high to
low.

Life tests you in ways unimaginable
to one whom has never lived
outside the palace of shimmering glass,
unclothed in mist-soft silks,
unwarmed by gourmet delights.

unfathomable.

those highs and lows
of life.

to all but they whom have struggled
to find warmth,
to quench thirst,
to fill heart and belly.

incomprehensible.

You break your back
To plow fertile their
Squalid earth.

You sweat
under the wailing sun,
Beneath their barbed wire
Whips.

You give your flesh
To satiate they hunger.

And what do you get in return?

A place for you head.

The chopping block.

So you blame the roses for the locust swarm
That eats away at their beauty
And drench their joyful fragrance
In misery...

Where the **** is the insecticide?