Sometimes my words come out as static
and my legs don’t work quite right,
so I wind up the spring in my lower back
to act myself for the night.
A puppet existing in someone else’s world,
or a marionette doll mastered by myself.
Sometimes I wish I could let go,
so they would leave me on the shelf.

A woven blanket,
stripes down the length.
It’s here I see
nature’s final strength.
The sun christens my eyes,
it blinds every blade -
but whatever’s the point
in finding shade?
For shade is a myth,
just as heat from the sun,
it represents nothing,
it’s everything and one.
Your soul exists
in the fabric of the stars,
the stars exist
in the fractures of your scars.
The leaves a thread,
evil woven out of time,
but the rest locked in step -
it’s nature’s finest rhyme.
The symmetry we know,
the symmetry we see,
is nothing to the fabric -
it’s everything and free.

I find myself at the edge of the world,
feet aching and heart sore from the night,
having danced on the wind
like it blew just for me.
It’s hard to tell from inside,
but out here it’s clear:
there’s nothing beyond this point.

She uses up every last drop of rain
like there’s nothing to spare,
drying up her heart
until it wilts and rots in the sun.

Golden fires ember
and in this place I surrender.
I surrender to it all,
to nature’s promise
which melts on my skin,
to the silence
filled with symphonies
in every half-beat,
to the silver river
lined with glass memories
streaming behind me.
My land,
my sanctuary,
my garden
watered until the fruits of its existence
have bared,
until I’m nothing more than a
than a pair of eyes,
poised only to taste the breeze.

In my nightmares
you gleam,
and I bleed at the seams.
I don’t hear my screaming
with your voice in my dreams.
A melody
I fear,
yet ache to hear -
I drop to my knees
as your song hits my ears.

You believe every word you hear,
that every second is a representation of the next.
Inherent beliefs of permanence
and perseverance
permeate your existence
like nothing else matters but next year.
But what about tomorrow?
What about today?
You weep for a memory
yet you say that next year will come
so rest your eyes once more.
And you will weep and you will weep
and no matter the years that pass
you will still find tears in your eyes
because it will be a day
just like all the others are days too.

I’m moving arms that don’t feel like mine
and speaking words that don’t sound like me.
It’s a new season,
the changing colors whispering memories
of a new sky above the trees.

I lock my door,
and I light the match,
I sip my tea
as books turn to ash.
I hear the shouts,
claws reap my mind,
but I sip my tea
as the embers shine.
Light fills the room,
it’s reflected in my eyes,
agony knocks at the door
with the spread of lies.
Thoughts of silence,
my minds only keep,
the flames drown the pain -
can I finally go to sleep?

My skin turns soft
and my heart finds its cage,
but my fingers grow numb
as my heart starts to rage.
It burns
and it yells,
it’s found it own hell,
and when time starts to settle
it drowns in its cell.

At the foot of a world
that doesn’t know my name,
that doesn’t know my love,
and doesn’t know my shame.
You’ll be deafened by its roar
and the stomping on the floor,
and when there’s nothing left to give
that’s when it takes a little more.
It’s bent me broken once again,
the world I thought was a friend -
if it turns its back on me,
would it finally be the end?

Quite ugly, aren’t they?
The words that aren’t yours,
but still spill from your pen -
that roll off your tongue,
yet feel stolen again.
A symphony turned to pandemonium,
a melody that doesn’t impress -
This poem isn’t mine,
but I’m writing it nonetheless.

It’s brief and it’s beautiful,
a celestial osculation
that showers the sky a thousand brilliant colors.
The light remains,
and the distance begins.
Hence the beauty.