I stand amongst, under my feet, my leaves of last year's death toll.
The dried old leaves of my own yore, to which belongs the great sea of mold.

Today and tomorrow, as I grow older, there is a shriveling in my head.
With each day next, I'll surely step, my stomach fills with dread.

Softly I stand, plainly in the ground, between the shadow and the trees.
My feet don't make a sound, and my breath is held at ease.

Now, I 'am a Nyctophiliac; a lover of the night,
I have watched false stars begin to rise, and sing louder than the light.

When words have been killed,

You will find yourself in love,

But without words; gone.

I can hear it tapping on the bedroom door of my conscience,
a silent wind that's playing Louis Armstrong on a broken record player.
There's an orange rain spilling from a street lamp into my bedroom through a un-curtained window.

I lay in my bed, and though I wished I was dead, all of my thoughts were turned to you.
I can feel your haunting claws embracing my body like a desire too deep for the sea, and yet, I'm alone tonight.



You never liked how I turned my body into a book, but you never complained.
I'am a ****** good story to read.
A mystery novel written by a long dead author.

The orange rain drops 10 feet from the window and lands sideways on my wall.
It drains into the cracks of my closet door frame, and sets a light of God from within.

Soft cotton blooms under my sleepy carcass and folds between the crevasses of my form, and I become a moaning chrysalis with a fire set in it's chest.
Maleficence and wine swarms like wasps above my head and they're both drowning in the city light, the orange light.

The city light, the orange light.
The city light, the orange light.

It's nearly summer.
The best time of the year; undoubtedly.

A festering of walking and breath,
half naked woman on sand and ice cream,
and I, alone on my boardwalk, dreaming of lines that tell stories,

not paying any attention to anything that is happening.

That's the moment when a human finds a way to make love out of thin air on a boardwalk.

Wisdom doesn't come from time,
no,
Wisdom comes from those who see a light,
yes,
Wisdom is a thing to be feared,
yes,
Wisdom can be the final end of existence,
no.
This poem is a centipede,
yes,
it crawls on it's hands and knees begging for knowledge,
no,
it crawls because it has forgotten it has feet to stand on,
yes,
it crawls because it is scared,
no.
The centipede crawls because it knows no other way than

.This.