elegant as an elephant
graceful as the flocking geese
she wears a tiara of burrs
upon her head and crows,
"look! I am the princess now."

fair Ramona, why do you cry?
there is nothing left for you there
those girls were mean as shrews
they only brought you shame
with their callous words and giddy games

Ramona, O Ramona, blessed art thou
amongst maidens
for thine is the healing, the mercy,
the clev'rest wit and purest soul
for now and forever and ever
amen.

I power down the computer and wait for the processes to shut down
and as I do, I recognize for a moment
the chiming shut-down sound
as the same sound that plays in my head on a loop when I am trying to sleep
when the silent room screams louder than I can hear over
but in my ears it rings out again and again
while I toss and turn

I did not get the same courtesy when I was reset.
Mine was a cold reboot, with no warning or preparation
I had no idea what was about to happen
when he unplugged me from my reality
or messed up my keys.
I only knew when I powered up again the next morning
that something was wrong.

Only then did I realize that my programming had been corrupted.

inhale.
Erebus swallows the sunlight, plunging you down
into the thick, suffocating darkness
wrapping your body like silk sheets
dark sheets, not black but dark
dark in the way that the crack in your ceiling was
when you were six, and water damage from the upstairs
broke through the plaster and left a void
it grinned at you, sending shivers of evil down your spine
and it laughed when you screamed for your mom.

exhale.
You are not six anymore.
the ceiling has been patched for years.
static from the TV fills the soulless motel room
you had put it on for the white noise
of garish and noisy cartoons,
hoping they might drown out the silence
but the wind storm outside must have knocked out the cable
because now it is static.
just black and white dots aimlessly filling empty space and time
like you.

inhale.
It has been a long time since you have rested.
when was the last time you slept?
sleeping seems as chaotic as waking,
so it's hard to tell.
is that patter rain?
is it the sink? or a neighbor's shower?
but then again, does it even really matter?
it feels forbidden, yet inevitable that you would wind up here
maybe you should get out while you still can.

exhale.
Who are you?

inhale.
Why are you?

exhale.
Does it matter?

exhale.
Does anything matter?

exhale.
Do you matter?

exhale.

rest, now. the answers will not come.
so forget it.
forget the pain,
the sorrow,
the deliberation.
exhale, and rest forever.

exhale.
exhale.
exh...

When Charlotte Haze allowed into her home
A monster in unassuming white linen pajamas
Could she have known what he would do
To her daisy-fresh girl, lying among the lilies?

As she bathed in sunshine on the golden shores
Of Hourglass Lake, could she have known
Where his mind was, with the child sent away
Nuptial solitude invaded by his maddened obsession?

Before Mrs. Haze-Humbert left the world,
She found the confession he wrote on silk ribbons
Meant to tie around her neck and then the child’s hair--
Yet her first concern was of how she had been betrayed.

As Charlotte lay dying on the hot concrete
Did she wonder if she might have seen it coming--
Her demise, foretold by his fantasies
Of violence towards her, of brutality for the child?

Which her last thoughts cast towards:
The orphan she now left behind?
Or her own aching heart,
Torn with jealous rage between her love of the girl
And the infidelity of a husband gone astray?

Can we just lie here forever
With our eyelids heavy,
fingertips light
arm behind head
chest against chest
Breathing rhythmically together,
exchanging silent words of sweetness?
Your metaphor for love
rings like a bell in my ears
as I trace the contours of your body
with my fingers, enjoying
every moment.

Did Doorthy kiss the Lion's snout
when she parted ways?
Did she lay her fingertips on the cold metal
of the Tin Man's breastplate
Or run her hands through the straw hair
of her friend, the Scarecrow,
Before departing with her slippers back to home?
Did she ruffle her skirts
when the Wizard blew away
most likely to be caught in another Kansas storm?
Did she shed a tear for the melted Witch
and let it fall into the puddle of water and robes?

So must I kiss you goodbye
when the time comes for me
to leave our sanctuary and find my own
far away from the land in which you entrapped me?
Must I pat the monkeys that hung waiting for me
to try to escape your palace?
Must I bow to the guards standing sentry
at the front gates of this prison
where I relive my horrors again and again
watching the movie of my memory replay on the walls
as if projected by a machine meant to remind me forever?
Must I wave my tormentor goodbye,
shielding my eyes as I watch you fade into nothing
into the sun setting over my captivity?

Two noble powers, Birth and Death
whose balanced struggle is catalyst for the rest
Birth starts a life that it's Death's job to take
with Birth's son, Love, and Death's son Pain
companions to hold 'til dust in a grave.

There once was a power who ruled beneath
he'd steal the lost and smite the weak
he held man's life in his cold, cruel grasp
without a moment of light to last
he'd visit the people, a harbinger sans ruth
bringing news of a barren, hideous truth
then steal away, fast as shadow rolls
bringing with him expired human souls
Death was ruthless, death was cold.
Death had no problems with himself to behold
he reveled in sadness, he thrived in blood red
he garnered his power from tears, victims shed.

Then one day, a golden beam of light
the one golden ray that Death cannot smite
a soft light beam was born at the crack of dawn
and Death felt something he knew was wrong
the baby girl, such a small babe
she grew up in safety, out of Death's way.

But Death could not keep away from her for long so light
he had to see her, be near her, so he visited her one night
he took not the girl, for then he could not even hope
but instead, her mother, whose thread of life he cut the rope
and the girl was saddened, desolate she cried
but Death couldn't find it in him to allow her to die
so he saved his visit to her for the last one he brings
visiting her father and brother next he came, slicing her heart-strings
but the girl became depressed and wished not for him
instead she pulled the dagger out on a hopeless whim.
The pain was too much for her to await her Death's part
she pulled the knife out and held it over her heart
and took her own life, robbed him of a visit such
and she passed to forever, without Death having one touch.

my love language is silence
written into the script:
moments of lapsed conversation
where all is tranquil and serene.
or when we forget our lines and sit
in hushed reverence,
allowing one another’s stage presence
to wash over us like the backlights.
invisible audiences hold bated breath
waiting for a twist, a shock
but a twist, we have not rehearsed
instead we allow the unscripted silence
to wash over us in reverent bliss
our conjoined souls just content
allowing our minds to diverge
as long as we are together in the silence.

Tell me it’s worth it, all of this pain
That life gives you more than this strain
Tell me it gets easier, somehow, from here
Tell me how someday I’ll live without fear

Whisper your promise that you’ll never leave
Swear on your soul that I’ll never bereave
Hold my hand against your beating heart
And make me believe that we’ll never part

Tell me it’s worth it to struggle along
Sing me a lullaby, a soft, solemn song
Impress upon me the truth that you speak
Be my strength when I am but weak

Ice in my heart brings no solace this time
Melt me with promises of summer sublime
Hold me and whisper your comforting lies
I’ll try to believe you until our demise

Tell me it’s worth it to feel this way now
Assure me, remind me of our sacred vow
Tell me I’ll have you forever and a day
Promise that love will always find a way

Perpetual lonesomeness takes its toll
My shattered existence is lacking a soul
But for now in this place I’ll trust in illusions
Crystalline happiness built on delusions

Tell me it’s worth it, and I’ll tell you the same
And together we’ll believe forever will remain.

I cannot say if things are worse
Than times that went before
For I saw not that bygone world
Nor what they did endure

Where once their sight was short,
Now it's growing nearer
Starter homes where they once held court
Go "green" like silver mirrors.

Elixirless were garden hoses
Plastic cups, no holy grails held beneath their noses
Now all you have left are pictures
That time has robbed of hue
I study them now, and try to suppose it
But the complexion hides no trace of youth:
Just spoiled cream and rotting roses
A foul-odored truth.

The trade was fair when young were the eyes
That fixed upon that crest, their prize
Now turned white with cataracts, still they **** it dry
And turn to bottles for babes set aside,
Begging pity for the old and blind
And anyone too far gone to toil.
"It shall be hard time," or so they cry,
"Served beneath the soil."

I do not know if things are better
For I can’t see past the doom
As we sign on the line, the place in the ledger
For a place in their scrapbook without any room

It's hard time indeed that's served beneath ravaged soil;
So tell me:

Can a head that sold my breaths to royals
Anoint itself King with motor oil?

Safe inside a bubble made of steel and glass
Sparkling with raindrops in the night’s lights
Warmth like bed, soft as a summer’s sigh wrapped in darkness
Words depart with the hitching breaths and racing hearts
Secret messages conveyed in the dew
A child’s finger-painted mural, pointing to where it hurts
The bottle inside is shaken near to combustion
The fences that have such good neighbors made
Crumble into soapy heaps
Suddenly there is no air, no breaths at all
Only the caress of a cheek, the whisper of a name
In one stolen moment, a secret yearning is given form
And outside the rain falls heavy and cool,
Promising respite from the confusion swirling inside,
The gift of the sky washing away any uncertainty.
But none comes. Outside the storm rages the same as within.
Soon the sun will rise, and perhaps
all will be made clear in the light of morning.

“Whatever is true,” she said,
“I want better for you.”

What’s true is that I am alone in my fight
The darkness that swallows the light
For whatever is true, dear Mother
Is your baby was hurt by another

What’s true is that I stand alone
Cowering before the Wicked One’s throne
For whatever is true, Father dear
Is your little girl was stolen from here

What’s true is that I’m losing my mind
Every step pushes me further behind
For whatever is true, dear Friend
Is that I am drawing near to my end

I didn't see it coming;
I expected nothing else.
Thirteen years old, hiding behind the rules
so I didn’t have to face
that shortcoming, that missing piece.

Once I had accepted limitation as
the sublime:
something that would come in time.
The constraints, then, gave it meaning,
deciding who says what.
Syntax is rules, and rules are limitations.
Without them, we are-- what?

But in time I came to want it,
that freedom to--
I traded "pressure to not" for "pressure to do".
Peering through the rhetoric,
I ventured into the upper reaches, and
I came apart.
There was nothing to hold me together
in this elevator, its yellowed walls crumbling away.

“Not all freedom is good. You can have terrible freedom.”
Was it the mother or the Aunt that said this?
Or Friedrich “entsetzliche Freiheit”--

Ah, Schiller.
What of the Mrs? Did she have freedom
in her husband, in Richard F.?
More freedom in the
(****-and-) (ball-and-) chains
than in the haze of youth?
The most, then, (it can be presumed)
from her departures: first to Alaska,
then even farther north, from where none return.

As freedom dissolved into expectation,
itself now another limitation, I wondered.
Which had it worse:
the woman (machine) outside the yellowing elevator walls,
or the girl (ghost) pacing within?

What is this?
A memory? A dream?
A memory of a dream?
Early morning passes in serenity,
birdcalls slowly replacing the patter of precipitation
as hazy sunbeams drift lazily past the curtain.

Exhale a steady sigh out the cracked window. your breath,
an ephemeral cloud for just a moment,
is highlighted against the garden
and your shoulders fall.
The balloon of breath swells again in your chest, filling the cavity with peaceful Sorrow.

When did She first look your way, blonde locks falling into Cerulean eyes?
When did he brush past you and send waves of butterflies swarming your insides?

Maybe this is better.
Maybe it's better to see the world clearly, without the pretty impediment
of rose-colored glasses.
Maybe it's better to never bite the apple, for what might you lose
if it has turned?
Better to never taste crisp, cool fruits if you can
save your milk-teeth from being lost in ice-chilled flesh.

Will there ever come a day where I drown you in my words,
you sinking up to your ears in my grievances and tales
of sheer mediocrity?
Will there come a day when you cry out and beg me to be silent;
and since I am too shocked to know what else to do, I fall so?
Will there come a day when my endless tales become the bane of our love?