I dreamed of the fathers.
They wanted to show me
what I had forgotten to know.
They needed me to see
what I would not see,
things I could not believe,
things I could not accept.
I ran down the halls,
through rooms in a castle,
endless like the rains outside,
beating the grasses
with a kind of benign cruelty.
A maze of walls, halls, and stairs
unfolded before me.
I sensed, somehow,
deep down below me,
something turning the world,
turning everything,
something that sat satisfied
at the heart of it all,
smiling calmly,
as I kept running
down castle halls.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:36 AM UTC
1
A dark day looms over me here.
Summer haze blazes
to my chiaroscuro eye.
Half possessed
by my own dissonance,
I open to a sunrise
and make my way
in broken music
or I will die.
2
Give me no surprise,
no small, close lies.
Make me, lords above,
into one last simple thing
time cannot overcome.
A dream I dreamed:
a blood red flower blooming.
In the dark,
I rose
unintended.
3
I see the light in my eyes
and the darkling dream
in the tree beyond the plain.
I glimpse it
and it vanishes
into dusklight,
into a night
held by remembrance.
4
I waver above a new fire,
counting will-o'-wisp flickers:
how light grows,
dies,
wavers,
flickers.
It dances on the wall
where I wait.
I bid my being well.
In the air I see
how slowly dark encroaches,
how light
waits
in silence.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:33 AM UTC
Begin again,
with the heart in mind, they say.
Bring me the spirit of the mountain man.
Tell me the sadness behind your greatest regret.
Or lie
sweet little lies.
How and now,
watch me fly
through barriers that bend and sway
in the blind minutes of madness.
Strategy, schemes.
Stress and strain
the name of the game.
And we do it to ourselves.
Hope
I lost it on the merry-go-round of chance,
in the eyes of my first lover,
Goddess Fortuna,
when she turned away
from my pleas and cries,
leaving only
sweet, aching dreams
that haunted the years.
It is a dark night.
And I am thankful for the stars.
For smiles.
Company.
A flicker of importance.
The quiet skill of suppressing
a part of me
that dies.
Little sighs from my little sister.
Bellows from a big brother
who never found
meaning
in a mad,
mad,
mad world.
And I
I sit in the afterlight,
with a man mind full of fog,
where words move like old ghosts,
slow and shivering.
Across from me,
a woman smiles
but she is dead.
Her eyes curl like devils.
She reminds me
of all I cannot name.
The window slams shut.
The door is gone.
I am locked out here in the dark
or in here with her.
With you.
The trees outside plead upward
to a grey sky,
naked,
shivering,
asking for something
no one answers.
I want to scream
like they scream.
To signify.
To simplify.
Please.
How about our last song,
my dear?
Yes
let’s sing it.
Say it was a sweet serenade
after all.
Of sweethearts.
Please.
Don’t say it was of hurt
and longing.
Let the trees scream for us,
since we are too tired.
Let the sky cradle what we couldn’t say.
And if there’s no heaven
then may the wind
remember
how we once tried to be
more than echoes.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:31 AM UTC
A friend of mine
though I never met him
a man, a soul, as to a soul,
spoke of fish as ideas,
ideas as spirit,
spirit as if a dream.
You sleep but do not dream
when you dive for the big fish.
There they wait
your whims and themes
below the murky depth.
And I,
a flower upon the waking world.
I am lesser for your passing,
but know your words live on,
and therefore I still fish
fish for the big fish
in that murky dark.
I know my fish still waits.
So I dream in its dark slumber,
waiting, waiting, waiting.
The tendrils of my means
creep out to find me,
saying
wait, wait, wait
your life is still not complete.
But reveries of old,
stories never told,
a deep dark mist,
a yearning hollow,
a dust of dusk tomorrow,
a heart like a sea
silent after the storm has died.
That
and there
this again.
We are glorious suns died
in a city without sun,
a world beyond sin,
a hope so ancient
it is embedded on our eyelids,
a yearning so deep
we cannot sleep without it.
As I age,
as I dream,
the fish never sleep.
But I
I fish.
Fish for my big fish.
Still.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:30 AM UTC
All in the faces of
people,
these rings, these shadows, these cycles
binding us through the centuries.
Do they not cry out in the night?
As the child cries out in horror and pain?
And do I not cry,
as these binding shadows cry
like a sepulchral entwined snake?
These people’s sentiments…
I can’t see the beauty.
I can’t find the hope.
Though I try, day after day.
I can’t see the sun for the trees,
or the horizon of the world.
I wanted a dream
but I’m weary
without reason.
All so easily explained.
These games.
Play the riddle for me, Esther.
And in these silent hours
perhaps I can sing
like the sages and prophets of old,
when in the dark and sombre years
a light came
that never went out.
But here I am,
a child of the divine,
as we all are,
watching the centuries fall
like resin from the sky.
And there she is with me,
knowing:
the cup breaks on the fall.
There’s no stopping it now.
We walk
pretending the day won’t end,
as if we have control,
as if we are not
a minutia collection of dust
born from a tormented star
in an age beyond thought.
Still, we walk,
just going and arriving,
and you don’t even say my name.
Nobody does,
in the twilight dusk.
Just the crying child.
The lonely spirits
guiding us through the centuries.
Save us now from this demented daydream,
this husk of reason
that follows our plight.
THERE IS A STAR
THERE IS A LIGHT
THERE IS A BOY
HE CRIES IN THE NIGHT
There.
There again.
Again and again
these cyclical dreams,
and us,
on the shore,
watching it all replay in our eyes
like short lived stars.
There,
there it is again
a dream,
a cry,
a husk
of life
petering out in lime lusk light.
In the faces of these people,
in the windows of their souls
I looked.
All I saw was dust
behind memory of memory,
time built on time,
energy
coursing through us all.
Just shadows.
Just dust.
Just a moment.
Just us.
Me, you, and I,
without hands.
Shouting.
Screaming.
In the dark.
And somewhere far beyond,
a child stops crying
and listens.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:29 AM UTC
It is impossible to know
if I am telling a lie.
There is a peace I cannot hide,
running, running
with the time we tried.
There is no home,
there is no home,
there is no home.
Come, take the cup.
It does not wait
for the impossible to know.
We are dice amidst the dusk,
kissing in trust.
We hide,
we hide,
we hide.
It rages in me
like a beast tamed
to a thing
that cannot love or hate
what it sees,
only live on in subdued wonder.
Singing with a soul.
There is nothing
that will remain.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:28 AM UTC
Nothing can stop me now.
I’m flying like a kite,
high above you ********
your steel cars booming,
polluting,
your tarted-up models
with fake smiles, fake teeth, fake ****
I’m high up here.
Wait, am I dreaming?
I’m like a god
witnessing the ascension of myself
to meet and absolve myself
of myself.
Or am I a writer
typing myself into existence?
Shoes on the floor,
hangings on the wall,
shot to death.
Sentences like lonely words
meeting other lonely words,
pretending the story
is worth the reading after the writing.
But is it?
Is it really?
Your words won’t absolve you
of the past
or a future approaching too fast.
You can tip-tap away,
or even fly away,
but you can’t escape yourself.
Deep in the clouds
or deep in your dreams
there is no saving yourself
from yourself.
All you are,
all you ever will be,
is yourself:
your words, your voice, your god,
your hopes, your stories, your dreams,
they won’t ever save you.
I tell it like it is.
I’m not sorry.
I write so you will know:
you are a walking shadow
feeding on dreams,
moments, sadness, emotions, madness,
pretending one day
you won’t die,
but you will,
and nobody will care
in fifty years,
maybe twenty.
Let’s not idealise death.
It’s the essential of living.
It’s already in your cells,
already in the stars blinking out,
leaving worlds in shadow.
And still
I am flying high above,
don’t tell me I’m dreaming.
Keep your cars, your tattoos,
your vapid stares.
I’m flying,
flying,
dying,
flying,
absolving all sin.
Fingers still typing,
inside the dream,
still going,
flying,
dying,
typing,
until the screen blisters white,
until the words become wings,
until my pulse is the key pressing itself,
until death stands in the doorway
and still I’m typing,
typing,
typing,
each letter a spark
burning the dark,
each spark a refusal,
each refusal a life,
until the last
black
dot.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:27 AM UTC