silence;

it echoes in my thoughts
chills the core of my bones
frost lines my lashes
I am never alone

speak, I beg
but, still,
I die in silence.

I love the water,
though I swim in murky tides.
Treading through the weeds.

i know regret
and it tastes very much like grief
i know love
which, often,
is the same colour as relief.

Eternity is
like fruit that never ripens;
endlessly bitter.

in a hush,
the fire flew
- a brush
of yellow hues;
in the darkness
it is painted
the silhouettes
of me and you.

there is no room
on the moon
when you're floundering
in doom.

there is no reason
for the season
to stay
for your treason.

there is no way
I'd deny
I'm in love
when you cry.

Juniper.
Such a naïve little thing.
She knows not what she wants,
but she enjoys the butterflies of Spring.
Perhaps when she grows up,
she'll find out how they go into
metamorphosis.

I've never known you,
but I've passed you many times.
I envy how easy you make it seem.
I wish you'd notice me.
I -
never mind.

go slow,
do good,
and be brave enough to be kind

The old poets write of archaic heroes;
the old poets sing of tragedy and pain;
the old poets know of woe and triumph;
the old poets make words that forever remain.

The new poets dabble in life and in darkness;
the new poets scribble their madness on page;
the new poets read what the old poets wrote;
the new poets write out of freedom and rage.

I write to relive and I am doomed to re-die
if only the emerald would leave my eye,
and stain every plane of my memory's mind,
and promise every secret my future might find;

I write to give slivers of salt to the world
I long for the knowledge that I am doing this right
I write for the forlorn fire in the palm of my hand -

humanity is hardly infallible
we are fragile fragments of matter

let go of your worldly possessions
even your opinions
and walk the planet you have evolved with and into

anger burns along the shore,
kindle makes it crackle more,

let the tide sweep in and pour
all the things that you adore.

The lines of her hands had been born with her before the finger prints
her eyes had settled blue when she first opened them
the dimples came when she was a few months old
and her name was the signature of Artemis herself -
loved completely as she slept in the womb of women
loved abundantly when her cries of life echoed in the ripples of Narcissus's reflection

she was purest the moment breath came into her
and most peaceful when the last sigh escaped her ancient lungs

the lilacs in bloom
remind me of spring's shortness;
neither do they last