Your skin
On
My skin.
The luminosity of curiosity twinkling within.
When you touch me,
Do you feel me?
You could heal me
Of
My sins.
An
Angel
-from every angle-
Are you able
To shed skin?
I will shed you
Of the evils
You harbor within.
I will harbor
Your
Sins
I will harbor the DNA you shed on my skin,
I will anchor on the harbors of your depths deep within
-you could heal me.
Tell me again;
When you touch me,
Do you feel me?

you are birdsong
you are moonlight
you are white snow
you are rippling cornstalks
you are rolling hills
you are the sun setting behind the mountains
you are morning air, and dew
you are a ripple in a quiet lake
you are refracted light in a flowing stream
you are a bed of lilacs warmed by the sun

you are beauty
beauty is you

We are all reverberating shrapnel of an explosive kaleidoscope of organized chaos
We’re scurrying ants piggybacking bread crumbs that press too-heavily on our abdomens
We’d scratch our way up to the constellations on the ceiling if we could just be weightless; if we could just find the right handgrips and footholds
But shoelaces get tangled, palms get sweaty, knuckles get scratched, bodies get heavy
So instead we settle for ducking into tunnels, seeking out the empty train-cars and avoiding eye contact with strangers
Seated alone in tattered pleather seats, we wish we could dissolve the stained grimy window-glass that stands between us and everything that could matter
We’ll force smile-lines into our cheeks when we reach our destinations while quietly scrabbling at the semiprecious dream of a place that we can’t articulate: the unattainable, inexplicable else else elsewhere

Glimmering lights from the powerful skyline,
reflected like jet flames in the River Thames.
Lights multiplied by the flash of a camera,
capturing beauty in it's searching lens.

I wasn't so sure of here before,
but now I know there will always be
a place in my heart for this great city.
A home, a hub for the bustling race.

Some say mind over matter,
I say heart over mind,
but my heart has learned to love
that which my mind has made a matter.

Valiant galley set sail
adrift through the  Dardanelles.
Her masts, backs straight,
composed as Venetian dames
in familiar basse danse.

Sunset floats amongst the sea mist
silhouetting the capital's skyline.
The holy dome of the Αγία Σοφία
eclipses the light.

The Lady makes port,
at the City on the Seven Hills.
Gentle entrance to the beating heart
of the bustling district.

Weekly masses gather in cracked tabernacles nurturing feeble souls cursed w/woes and foes,
only to be fooled again.
Their pickled skins reek of sorrows and sins.
...let the worship begin...
There,
they expound on the cunning substance.
Their thoughts and words clatter,
spewing it onto a gleaming platter.
Some may feed upon on what is said,
others exile and roam with the stark spirits of the dead.

the purple insect
shivers on a wet mushroom
morning sun will rise


cicada thunder
my summer evening dream song
give me the black moon

Hunger-driven, you
skulk in the shadows,
waiting to prey upon
blissful souls.

Methodically you creep in unannounced
and deliver a painful, striking pierce from
your already blood-stained fang,
numbing all of my essence.

Skin swells. Muscles cramp. Bones ache.
My eyes fall dreary. I start to salivate,
desperately yearning to taste life again.
My heart races in fear of human contact.

Caught in a tangled web, I restlessly lay in bed for days.
The comforter is soaked
with sweat and tears. Screaming
into the pillow, I beg for relief.