Rain beats outside my window
The only sound lulling me to sleep
In this dark, cute apartment
I wonder how I might earn my keep

The black shadows hold me close
Keeping me warm when the night burns cold
I create to show my strength
Before my young skin becomes too old

How might the world observe me
When I emerge from this tight cocoon
With a laundry list of dreams
And no history of silver spoons

The light tells me to be brave
Because the dark won't last forever
My journey has just begun
With no ties left for me to sever

you are the moonflower,
and the sweet fragrance
of night blooming jasmine.

the mysterious, magical beauty
of a single night.

It is the passionate night that holds you.

nothing lives forever,
not the stars scattered in the skies
nor the sadness reflected in your eyes.

hold my hand, blue flower.
hold my wistful heart
tangled and intimate
in our distant romance.

the oak trees rustling in the wind.
there is something cold in the air...
the fleeting bloom of the night's flower.

oh, flower of the night,
the night will never release you.

a solitary tear falls. I draw the shades.

the song of birds measures the air
the buds of the future are fragile
what a fate - not a rhyme:
the eyelids are filled with light

Sad reflections from
donated dreams.
Charity's
fallen embers.
Like a high UV index
they burn right into
your skin.
Freckling
your thoughts with a bit of compromise.

Close your eyes
to the possibility
inertia
has made itself at home.
You'll feel it, feel it
right to the bone.
But you crossed that bridge
long ago.
In the time of
tranquil misgivings.
You gave consent to
sin by offering up
your sons and daughters.
Drowning them
in the shallow end of dissipated water.

Sing hymns
all you like.
Piety
is not for sale.
And the angel light
that hits the wall
is not in the shape of Mary.
Evil always figures into
these things.
Don't you know? Heat rises. Blood falls.

So burn your prayers
on a stick. Roast them
in the campfire. You'll never turn
to God until you lie
dying. Broken and heaving.
Asking for forgiveness.
Which a man of cloth
will grant.
Such a charmed life to leave.

Only it's a cheat.
A spoonful
of circumvention.
Making you feel
warm and clever
as you bleed out. Regrettably,
your vacuous heart
sailed off on the Greta Garbo
and mortgaged
your future for such marquee.
Banking on the
here and now.
From this there can be no redemption.

What if my heart is an open wound for your purposes?
Dissent, darling. Cross not my path. I see you
In every guitar string, tennis net, bicolour flag,
But I don't see you within me. Excuse the lag
In my conscience, and I'll excuse each view anew
Of your face I realise I don't like. Lay the roses
Down for your soul, change the name on the stone
To mine. I closed the doors on my saviour when
His spokesmen told me my chastity was nothing
Even as hers was the holy grail, and snuffing
Out the candle again, I knock on your door, then,
Like delirium is all I know. Like my shirt is undone.

the night is running beside me,
dark limbs tangled in the rhythm—
a pulse, a promise, a threat.

the drums don’t ask for permission.
they pound like a lover’s demand,
like a fist through the ribs,
like a city about to riot.

there is no plan, no end—
just movement,
just the heat of breath against breath,
just the horns, loud and reckless,
kissing the air like they mean to tear it apart.

this is not a song,
it is a fever, a chase,
a lover with wild hands and a knife behind the grin.

there is no stopping now.
we run. we dance. we burn.