Life itself survives on the grid we call the brain.
Yet we can resurrect carefreely.
But in the end, if my jolts aren't there,
Am I still me?
When I nearly die,
And my jolts go away,
Can I still be free?
Despite these eyes still being mine,
Will I still be me?
This, I fear, is my query,
Something that makes me be,
Depressed beyond all natural belief,
That I just may not be me.

Cold is the night of the Kentucky frontier.
The shining light of a hopeful traveler searching hard for what he would hope to be the nearby coal mining town.
As vain as the idealism in his heart.
His hopes of a better life shadowing reality.
His future is filled with the crunch of boots and slicing of shovel blades.
The black heart of the mountains crying in anguish.
He was not the first.
Nor the last.
He was simply a product of his culture.
But one day would serve him well a reminder of his risk.
A flicker of light within the tunnels erupting the burping rumble of natural retribution.
Hellfire and brimstone coating the entire mine with silt and ash.

As was the life in the Black Appalachia.

I can feel this empty heart,
So cold and black and meek.
Atop a stoney heartless mountain,
With which I climb the peak.
Every step,
A further push,
A hope to find my light.
But as the nights grow colder still,
I must keep up this fight.
I can feel this empty heart,
It bellows cries of pain.
Affixed to stringent memories,
The kind that hurt and maim.
I hope to find my promise soon,
The ******* me was a buffoon,
To keep up such a follow through,
A final chance to continue to,
The one I call my light.

Everyone in the city knows me,
I’m the man who plays with Dolls.
Made of Bisque and pretty china,
I will play them all.
No one knows me any better,
Than my doll Marice,
For when it came that time,
She knew I had no peace.
So in the end,
I sit alone
In front an iron chest.
The lock is jingling,
Yet my hand lay stiff,
The screams inside a gentle kiss,
That makes me wish,
A new porcelain doll

In the sleeping moonlit sky.
A light violin filling the air with lovely songs.
I gaze into the light of the stars that seem to only pulsate.
The crimson gas that further expelled into the emptiness of space.
Am I the one to blame for my gazing into the abyss?
With these rifts that give me pleasure so.
The urge further and further to see how far my eyes can go.
The stars stare back with their cold, dead eyes.

I scream.

Have you seen the breeze?
Underneath the mountain tops?
Resting with my eyes closed shut,
Tasting watery raindrops.
Meeting the gaze of a song bird flying.
Every