not a stirring storm, rather
a lake in crisis, thunderstorm
rhythm in motion, my body
is used to the churning

acidic vandalism of the inner
walls, scars like stars in the
midnight sky, constellations
of hurt, trapped within the
observatory I am

soon enough, the familiar
pain eases itself through
the rusted pipes, leaking,
faulty, unfeeling cold
like stalagmite formations

it returns home, unfortunately,
again, and I am no stranger to
the wintry tendrils that have
replaced my blood, that give me
life that isn't worth living

my digits twitch and spasm as
the metallic river snakes to
my extremes, shores of icicles
erupting to the surface

if am numb to the numbing anger
then why do my fingertips hurt?

march on brave warriors
feet drumming the earth
draw rhythm out of pain
the metronome of life
the right of way is
your right today

march on brave soldiers
veterans who have seen
everything but nothing
more and nothing yet
cry for the lost
weep for the found

march on brave children
tiny palms hold Atlas' weights
unbeknownst to them
they carve the cliffs and valleys
that they will live and die in

march on brave souls
who live on in us
in the tolling feet of warriors
in the tearful eyes of soldiers
and the tested palms of children

march on march on march on march on

march on bravely
march on knowing full well that we will
march on with you as you
march on.

you are the only white rose
in a sea of red

you are solace in turmoil, where my eyes
lay to rest and my heart beats quick

you are ruler of the bush, star of the
Christmas tree, moon of my sky

you draw my gaze, fuel my lust,
i look to the skies not for the stars but
to stare directly into the sun

but such as the sun does blind me,
so do you ***** me with your thorns,
pale face of rejection, moonshine of
pity, but not love

like the clouds covet the sun,
a hand caresses the spines,
and i lie on a bed of thorns,
for the hand is not mine.

i'd die for your frosted sugar lips,
**** gemstones rolling down my throat,
cutting my flesh into diamonds

seal your cheques in typewriter's speak,
i'd die for the rosy thumbprint over
my eyes, blind me from blood stains and
ink rain

bakery's closed, but you're still open, and
so am i, as we slow dance in the fading lights
of slow burning ovens, creeping warmth like
limbs around mine

i'd die from the bittersweet taste,
insidiously beautiful, black crumbs
in open wounds, ashen eyes hiding regret

as he utters slumber's name, i awaken
from beneath the counter,
dying to live
living to die

we clatter the seabed, grey-blue
curves dusted by sand, collectibles
forever left behind

we funnel beneath the *****,
beige shores, hidden from the sky,
out of sight, out of mind

we grind stones and pebbles,
fine as the freckles on your face,
against our chapped lips

we nurse the cracking carcasses,
saltwater biting at our raw cheeks,
puppets, helpless in the tide

we are hollow, devoid of shine,
and we feel our beating pearls
gasping for air in your poisonous,
silken pockets