i write poetry
my name is mark and it does
not really matter

the dying gods shout
their displeasure as they fall
into emptiness

i am not earthly
i am poet soul floating
i simply i am

i admit my faults
reluctantly and whisper
forgiveness to mind

******* wonder mind
walks the streets at midnight
with a spray can and brush

canvas the world
approval does not matter
they do they boo

hope meaningless
is is is that's all
a condition of existence

a consistent emptiness
to be filled with they
and the earth moves

how many men die
before the final battle
more than are needed

in an omnipresent haze
of cerulean blue
and vivacious velvet petals
where irises swim in lovely chaos
as I mutter several choice expletives
under my breath.
He burrows himself
deeper under my skin
stealing the breath from my lungs
rousing my beleaguered soul
awakening a feral need.
I relish this murky maze of desire
he elicits from me
and hungrily
await his return