It would be a day well spent if all i did was trace imaginary lines from one freckle to the next all across his body as if it was my very own canvas.

a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays

Poems? Sure

1680

Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.

They march down the pathways
Spoiled with the residue of death
As the haze of loss illuminates the sky
The pain grows as if the sun still shines
On bright green grass
Oh the smell of summer in their dreams

The sound of boots marching on
As the dirt rises in the air
The sound of their steps
Hallow while their souls are bare
The horror flashes in the storm
On the silhouette of clouds

March, March, Marching on
They walk the barren land
The empire no longer capable to stand
As its foundation falters

I want you to be the exception to the rule.
To be the silent c sitting in the scene of my life, having your implicit presence as a reminder of how utterly incomplete I’d be without you.

We watched a fire
engulf the night sky.
You were not afraid;
instead you smiled
as the flames lapped up the stars.
And for a moment, it seemed as though we'd found daylight--
drifters in the desert searching for the sea.
Violent burst.
I saw your face, eyes rimmed with tears,
happiness spilling down tender cheeks.
I wondered how it was that you were unafraid,
but you took my hand.
Steady; unwavering.
I traced the end along your ringed palm,
wishing to tear down the stars
and keep them within your reach,
safe from the chaos, the fear.
Another year was asking too much;
the pyre had reached us and all we could do was watch.
Gallant glory, brilliant destruction.

I have a bone to pick with Fate.
Come here and tell me, girlie,
Do you think my mind is maturing late,
Or simply rotted early?