in the soundtrack of my story,
there exists a lone percussionist...
and he plays to fit
the demands of passing moments.

•••

to the calm he plays steady.
in uncertainty he hastens.
he matches the ticks of seconds
when all is quiet,
and he thunders
to crescendoes and climaxes.

•••

in the symphony of my life
there exists a lone percussionist...
and he resides unseen in my chest.

Looking into the still,
black waters
that is your
imagined soul,
My withering prince,
everything held within,
a mere reflection of the
nothingness of time
And did it hurt,
My withering prince?
When I fell through
all the nothingness
that is you?

My empty memories,
of your stone hands
bleed the spaces
between seconds,
between dry tears
And I likened my soul,
to the yellowing pages
of an aged book,
crumbling,
tattering,
with every touch

My withering prince,
did it hurt,
when I fell through,
all the nothingness,
that is you?~A

Tiny curls of ink
on page after page
covered in a notebook
locked in a drawer
the silent voice
offers release
for grand ideas
and beautiful dreams
swirling in my mind

words of pain and delight
of love and hate
never made it to my lips
trapped in muted darkness
they stick to the sheets
never to change
never to betray
feelings that went
screaming onto the page

no one  will ever know
what lay hidden inside
buried with me
the pages crumble
silent feelings
turn to dust

Extricate myself from him
And sink right into you.
Each layer that I disengage
Builds several ones anew.
I should twist and point myself
Towards the coming dawn
Away from shaded city streets
Away from all your wrong.
I sense a brimming something drifting
Past my searching gaze
Your drawing out the truth in me
Is soon to cause me pain