I stopped feeling love, stopped wanting to be loved, stopped loving.

I thought I would be happier on my own.
I push everyone away.

The blues kick, sensation
drips down the nape of my neck. I shiver;
Frisson.  I crave the
feeling, the comfort of an all-too-familiar pain in the midst of my numbing depression that soothes this psychiatric ache; and substance that let us fake it
so much better, helped us feel
again, made it all seem better.

To a psychedelic summer
and those days spent trypping.
Perhaps solo it would be different;

I feel the need to understand this.
What have I found so indescribable?
What is this, tripping over experience?

If any word could conjure the things my mind has seen,
Psi.
Welcome to the Entheon,
Times' motions calls to a halt our thoughts' rotations

It is 4 AM and the indigo of dawn
has crept up behind the dark
mass of clouds, tendrils
of wispy sky shadow
can be made out
as its glow indicates
the path Apollo's chariot
will cut through the night in four hours.

Near two millennia ago a human once wrote:
“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars,
And see yourself running with them.”
Near two millennia from now a human might read
what words I've written and find me
whilst trawling through the hopes and dreams
of someone so far away.
Somebody saw something of beauty, they reach out
through the ages to pass it on;
Their feeling encapsulated,
Their reason  preserved,
Their spirit remembered
as for a moment they are disclosed.

Even if all I have to say is a word
for the light of the horizon
as it creeps unto dawn,
I am in your mind
briefly. I forget there's so much
I want to live for sometimes
so I write something
to remind me.

To say the word silence
is to break its reference.
Nothing's unutterable,
Does that mean some-
thing, could you out-
line the indescribable
or would it just fade/
replace/become? I'm
so happy to be sad,
Content in feeling even
if it be painful, I've felt no-
thing before, it's numbness
is awaiting us all, I can wait,
I am no thrall, I am here and
I am proud to fear.

I write when I am
distressed, when I
don't understand, when I
desire rest. I write when I wish,
I wish I were struck
by anything moving
fast, of adequate mass
that it might jolt me out
of this existence and into
a dimension which doesn't
quite exist, as it's residing in
thought, that fifth dimension.
It's calling me, calling to me;
Calling out my name,
Or do I call to it?
Wishfully.
I don't have to try
to think softly after
a roaring voice rips
through my mind, it
is just a thought that
crops up sometimes.
The sound is thought
which drifts, fear slips
and I know I'll stand
between sky
and sand when this
is all over.
Ashes to
ashes,
Dust
to dustpan.
Sweep me up.

Can everything we experience be delegated to brain activity?
What is mystical, how is it transmitted?
Who witnessed the birth of the empyreal?
Whatever is The Empyrean?

So many drifting realms call out
and questing minds have sought,
Time-in/time-out, to find them
yet again, resolving to determine
that definition, the word: 'change'.

The loneliness of the Apotheon is in its seeking
to control change, forever chasing an illusion,
Day-after-day. The surge of Endorphus is just
an extension of the lust of Entactus, it pushes
things farther, further away, the melancholy of
Empathos draws them closer to us (at dusk),
Alexithymia was begging to be broken, so chained
t'was by a human, pondering the depths of Absurdia
and beyond; a love of The Psychedelion might yet prove
harmonizing enough to climb over this wall that was built
to constrain our thought, make no mistake, t'was built by us.
Night-afore-night we remember a way to bypass Choler, to rend asunder temporality via escapism's wonders, quantizing oneirogenesis, living dreams.
I dreamt I lived in a keep,
How strange, a castle was my home;
It was homely though.
Hence the forlorn appearance of The Entheon
as (by dawn) it let go
of the notion of control,
Reflecting our determination {from eons ago/for aeons to come}

All I ever wanted
was to be a gentleman.
What if those gentlemen I
aspired towards are proponents
of a patriarchal life-world.
Where does hope ever leave me?
All anyone ever wanted
was to be good. I know
I'm one of the bad guys. So it goes.

Might as well tell a joke befitting:
Why did god give man two nostrils?

A small bump of 4-MEC
[4-MethylEthCathinone]
It is a fairly typical
substituted cathinone.
Pleasant enough and
without excessive
tachycardia at
lower doses.

A little line
of Ketamine
goes down
well as
a chaser,
It put me
at ease after
the stim's quick-
fire breeze. I fall
into tranquility
but it's not the hole
we're all searching for.

My mate sneezes.

I walked to the gig but it wasn't in me
Saw a couple heads as I was leaving.
I walked over, greeted them, lost myself
in the lull of conversation. As I looked
in their eyes, at their demeanor, I saw what
I'd been trying to leave behind. I tried to hide from it,
I realized: I wish I'd just get wrecked, be carefree and destroy myself,

Let me tell you what once was
and what has come to pass,
We skip over the names
of chemicals ingested
otherwise we might be here
forever, boring you
with the finer details of our sorcery.

Some psychoactives were ingested
and they had great effect, but
as that garrulous fiend
lost himself to/in guileless babbling
about some concomitant companion,
A friend, an event, special he felt
in the company of a human
who made him feel like an adult,
Selfish octopus
what you must think of me, but
why should I care/does it matter?
I do because it's what humans do
and there's some human left in me
yet (hopefully.) Tell me what occurred
on the banks of the Lethe?
Don't answer that.
"Not what but why" was actually asked.
My, this has been
a most meandering
experience said the
author who promptly
resigned and fell asleep
doubtful how anyone who
actually bothered to read this
most prosaic mess should have
managed. It does have a fine name
if nothing else, and undertones
of narcissism always help in
the casting of a fair spell.

Floating down this
preserved memory,
Way down on
the banks of
the Lethe
where
memory
dares not
ordinarily
stir (up whatever
does occur), therein

we find ourselves asking
why

Dreams and reality seem inseparable
as though waking thought had melded
with that of subconsciousness unto one.

Insomnia/trance,
"my mind is always on."

I am become The Oracle of Apollo,
Under ethylene intoxication
the past, present and future are one.

Pythia of Delphi lives on.

Back into the throes of existence
I find myself thrown.
The session has found me again
and I admit
that I lost it
sometime ago. In longing I drown
until something best left unknown
reared its head; The Great Perhaps
was upon me at last

and I could only see heartbreak
awaiting me on the horizon
of her love.

It can't plausibly be, infinity;
Psilo-Cybranity
seeking liberty.

His body shivered, thy
Myth of Entactus
flowing through him.

Symbiosis
is hybridity,
Finally transcendent.

Originally coined in response to Phanerothyme  [manifest & spirit],
Psychedelic  [mind-revealing] is etymologically derived from
the Greek psychē and dēloun. Psychedelia is music, culture, or art
based on the experiences produced by psychedelic drugs.
(Cyberdelia is immersion in cyberspace as a psychedelic experience.)

Some peoples feel there is a spiritual dimension to these experiences
and as such have developed a suitable terminology to reflect this view:
Entheogen,  [generating the divine from within]
denotes "a generator of spiritual experience", from
Entheos  [god-within], meaning
full of the god, inspired, possessed.
A spiritual experience is defined by its significance
to the host/subject. Entheogenic has been posited as
an alternate descriptor of "the psychedelic experience"
(in lieu of hallucinogenic) though this is a subjective term.

The Psychedelion is the analytical dimension of the psyche,
The part of the mind through which information is analysed
and thereby assigned meaning which is therefore significant.
Psychedelos is the existential manifestation of said dimension,
It is expressed through the medium of a language.

Absurdus  [out-of-tune] is the nonsensical dimension of the psyche, a part of the mind comprised of uninterpreted data, proportionate to our own limitations rather than lacking in "actual meaning". If a noumenon cannot be processed in The Psychedelion then it is consigned to Absurdia wherein we accept the inability to understand/rationally analyse it at present, given the current context.

Entactus  [touch-within] is the physical dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind through which sensation is perceived and remembered. It is responsible for the conception of our body and it's senses.

An Aeon Dissociative negates Entactus to deduce Absudia.
A Seraphic Deliriant posits Choler to induce Absurdia.

"G'luck to ya"
sounds like
there's a
Glock
aimed at
your head
but I swear

that's just the
sarcasm talking.

He walks for me now, out in the street, under the bough.
Definity; the feeling it, I know how.
Leave us, there is only one thing left for me now.
I miss . . . .

Whatever happened
to that quality, the character of life
that enticed me so?

Surreality broke my mind,
Ethereality left it behind,
Apotheosis deified,
Entheos sublimed.
The Empathion felt,
The Psychedelion knew,
Everything I did, I thought was true.

Maybe it is, according to point of view.
Take me with you.

I'm lost, alone, in a forest, in a room.
In this perfect darkness I can see you.
Here I feel true. Hold my hand
and let us renew.
Leave this plane of existence with me
and together we will surpass humanity.
Let us transcend the mind,
We will warp time
and alter the divine;
Together we will sublime.
Ethereality is what I've been searching for.

It always begins the same. Ordinary day.
Then we start and that goes away.

I met up with some mates and went for a drink,
Dropped the singular and began to sink.
Testing the waters of inebriation,
I waded into a sea of intoxication.
In liquidity I lost lucidity
and floated off, spinning chillingly.

Gotta get loose and keep it moving,
The second you stop, you start losing.

I never lost curiosity,
The feelings of exploration never ceased to move me.
Each venture was another chance
to find something I couldn't catch.

On binge drinking I have this to say:
Relief is no valid reason to partake,
Sport is fair but only with mates;
And discovery is a double-edged blade.

It was during the Dangan days that I started losing everything, I had it all
and now there's nothing. When you're on top there's nowhere to go,
Better jump off than descend slow. Sometimes I wish I'd dived
right in; seeking these chemicals
to (k)no(w) satisfaction,
It's 'cause memory's not happening.

I need something that's intangible,
I fear it's gone away.
All the junkiesque rituals in the underworld
couldn't conjurer that place;
Only the apparition remains.
But I'll stay, because I found a poison; and it tastes good.

Now I'm a dope-dealing fiend,
And you know what?
I kinda like it. At the moment I feel like evil suits me,
If I had a vicious heart then I truly I could be
but I haven't got that in me. I just act and it relieves me.
Playing the drug-baron when I'm tired of the stick-monkey.

So many stories, so much time
spent by humans who mull over
questions so sonderous, pour over
answers which fill us
with such feeling
our hearts' would burst.
So many constructs, so much memory
Happiness, or drugs; if it's not one
it's another. Been so busy dying
I forgot to get living.
There is beauty in chaos.
Looking back upon
those times, these memories, fondly
and appreciating why Skins doesn't age.
In memoriam of spent youth, lost moments
and truth.

"UR A GLORIOUS HEADFUCK THING. OWN IT"

I can sense excess epinephrine, or
norepinphrine, clouding my judgement,
These adrenergic sons of Entactus;
The cathinone is but
simple amphetamine's
beta-ketone younger-cousin.

Replaced a methyl group with a fluoro one
and mephedrone's little brother was born:
The adorable flephedrone, don't be fooled though.

The stimulant is a chancer and a trickster,
Though this one seems more empathogenic than its brother;
I may be in danger of learning something.

Acid etched the daylight into my heart,
Closing the sun, I chose to see less of our scars;
We know I'm numb.

I kicked most of our bad habits but still
I don't really sleep,
Over-thinking all of these little things;
I spill some ink.

While people are talking, people are talking
while people are talking, people are talking,

Raise your head 'cause we're one ******* statement,
They say get real but instead we'll get away with it,
Let 'em talk 'cause we're dancing in this world alone,
World alone,
We're alone.

All of these voices and all of their noise,
's a mental thing you know,
They're studying escapism, I study The Door(s).
I stopped our cravings but I'm not alright.
Baby the Internet raised us
probably because people were jerks.

While people are talking, people are talking (but not me)
while people are talking, people are talking,

Raise your head 'cause we're one ******* statement,
They say get real but instead we'll get away with it,
Let 'em talk 'cause we're dancing in this world alone,
World alone,
On our own.

All the double-edged people in Skins,
They reflect our memories and that's when it gets real,
You're my best friend, and we're dancing in the world alone,
World alone,
Together/alone.

I know we've lost our family,
We're on a train, I'm wrecked with anxiety,
One day we'll go off the rails again,
One day they'll feel what you feel
(while people are talking, people are talking
While people are talking, people are talking),
What I feel;

While people are talking, people are talking
while people are talking, people are talking,

Raise your head 'cause we're one ******* statement,
They say get real but instead we'll get away with it,
Let 'em talk 'cause we're dancing in this world alone,
World alone,
Forlorn/our own.

All the double-edged people in Skins,
They reflect our memories and that's when it gets real,
You're my best friend, and we're dancing in the world alone,
World alone,
One reflection.

Where people are talking, people are talking
'cause people be talking, people be talking
while people are talking, people are talking
yeah people are talking, people are talking;

Contemporary democracy is a flawed system we cling to
because we've nothing better with which to build consensus.
Perhaps the resurfacing of fascism was heralded by excessive
neoliberal efforts towards political correctness and as it became
too much to behold the people began to throw stones. Or perhaps
it is due to inescapable socio-economic concerns. Ultimately I think
we have to ask three things:
1. Is libertarianism right, (surely its left but) is it fair, cui bono?
2. Is democracy good, is it viable, is the oligarchic disguised?
3. Is representation really all we can offer, does it work or
does pretense to transparency conspire to fail politics?

All I can conclude is that we don't know how to govern ourselves because we don't know ourselves very well.

Does information want to be free,
Does the law of entropy will it to be?

When I first saw her arms
they made me feel so afraid,
Those scars that betrayed the masquerade.
I would have killed to save her.
Now I belay this oxymora charade;
But I'm still here, with my broken passion,
Even if you all seem to have forgotten.

Scratch me, I ain't got nothing.
I'm parched and it hurts something.

The rain and the wind, ragged and wet weather
unlike any other out in the forlorn West.
We go at it all the same, buzzin'
in the soaking precipitation.

That night I saw a man realize he'd spent years of his life
wasting around G-town, and'd naught to show for it.
The lure of endless craic and perpetual sessioning
had ensnared him and he'd lost himself to this place,
Became a character in the local scene that recited his lines
and acted out his part.
What was all that he felt?
Were it at the behest of his
town, the jester himself
knows this place well.
Artsy-types, buskers,
Hippies and jugglers,
Crusties, line-backers
Shams and knackers,
Sesh-heads all.
Passing students, wanna-be teens.
All pretending they're larger than life
or whatever, in this way they almost are
but in-keeping their company you'd easily

become a fixture of the town. Ah,
You can't blame the city for its nature,
Though you may certainly curse it some.
After all you're the changeable one, being.

Everything looks perfect in the half-light,
Their reflections beautiful on flowing glass,
The whispering blades of quivering grass,
The silent sky of coming night,
An indigo horizon's illuminating light.

Those flawless young people at rest in the park,
That lay on their backs waiting for dark,
In an oasis of the city between cathedral and canal,
We found euphoria and were in it's thrall.
Heaven is dark, and the dark is warm.

It was here that I found my true home.

Sometimes I feel I've abandoned much of myself,
I get a longing for self-expression; I just don't know
who I am, who I should be.

Among them I'm honored,
I feel we are unique and genuine.
It's long written, a kinship that bonds the group.
We passed thru the millennium together.

The winds of change rustle The Empyrean,
Entheogenic vapours are adrift.
Awash in the ebbing tide of a perfect dusk sky,
Lying in wait, with patience, for this coming gift.
There's sincerity here, hidden
beneath Entheos-ridden mist.
Will it conceal to save face?

(I do swear by it's grace.)

Medina's breath refreshed us,
I took in her Aer under easing lights;
As one hot midsummer's day became
one cool midsummer's night.
We let the eddies of subconscious thought direct us
and we did soar, aloft to grand heights [buzzin'],
So high, no more. That's it, dizzy up the girl.

It was with such irrevocable jive
that we did commit to the night.

(Isn't self-sufficiency what we all strive for?)

It is the lateness of our chosen hour
that prompts such unequivocal pondering.

On absurd shores
lined by city street-lamps
waves pave the sand with swirls of starlight.

Morning eclipsed the other-worlds of last night,
A tsunami of sensation faded like umbrae unto dawn.

Acid cyclone ate the rising sun
as The Empyrean yawned.

I have a fascination with the metaphysics, I find it fascinating
to try and fail, time and time again, to comprehend
how thought is there, and
what its substance/energy/entropy is;
If we're just biocomputers that excel
at pattern-recognition and abstract symbolism
then why is it that when the most meaningless of things strike
at me, and their possible significance is occurring, then
the realization of who put the signifier there
follows, the 'pataphysical critique.

Here I am begging another question, the search for meaning
guarantees one of finding, after all; presuming we can know,
The act in-itself is assuming, and what of the result? Even if
what's found is deemed to be nothing one can still consider
it. This epistemological fallacy is premised on a single reality.

Virtuality, surreality and liminality dispute our truth,
Communication, dreams and perception shake us from belief;
Finally, a post-metaphysical joke left us adrift in undefined meaning

I want to communicate something
but all I have is this
emptiness
where there should be emotion, I
wish for so many things
and yet can't find
the devotion.

Why am I so scared of my empathy?

The words we use say much about the order of things
and about our desired position in life.

They say I'm an innocent boy and perhaps
I am among the more experienced criminals.
I thought myself well-versed in the
dark-arts. There's always more to learn.
Last night I witnessed the proclivity of cathinones
to induce compulsive redosing when smoked.
My initial assessment of pentylone was off the mark
and that scene from last night stuck in my mind,
Seeing research chemical smoked off tin foil.
I did not discover this fiendishness, but
I bore witness to it, and it hammered home
how out of touch I am with a world I once lived.
I wonder if I felt the wrong sort of compassion,
But is it ever wrong to feel compassion?
Why did I feel cognitive dissonance?
Have I changed so much?
Who is it that feels these things?
So many questions. I'd quiet my mind.

These thoughts reflect much about the order of things
and my as yet undetermined position in life.

There was once a group of teenagers
who proclaimed they would live like gods;
And that we did, for a time nothing could stop us.
In hindsight it was another phase of turbulent adolescence,
Pushing it as far as the times would permit. I cherish such bitterstrange growing pains with nostalgic sweetness.

Some cast anchor, others drifted by.
Those friends that kept their ties
truly felt a sense of belonging
when by each others side,
They formed a lifeline.
Its feels like such
a time ago:

Where do the years go?
So many adventures
now remembered.

'Tis fierce mild out, said he to himself
one mild February night, breeze so bare
and an atmosphere to match that cool air.

At a later date he went east, out on the town for a night
in the Big Smoke, the next day thought to himself:
What pleasant languishing the coke had left

in thee, though tenderized the 'auld cardiac muscle some.
Awoke another day, some time after noon, and thought of how
he'd dreamed again during those couple months with her. Now those

nightly travels were less remarkable, an immemorable mush
full of fading oneiric sensations, a hazy sleep, it'd returned to
that somnolent jumble; the vitality, gone. This clue, to notice it

has been missing from thine mental life. It is a strange tiding
when one realizes how awry things've become; oh yes, dear
retrospect will you ever succumb to a more prudent future?

I know too well the drugs which captivate
my soul
and have held me spellbound since youth.

Aye, there are ways to regain what's lost, to
recover what's missing, but interactions in the world
should be the cause of dreams, their form and content.

It worries me some to suppose other than that. If it was
some other world or part of the soul that imbued our dreams
with meaning, that would imply something has cut me off, or out.

Even were this not the case I think the implication still stands.
I mean to say that the presence of those who are known to us
in waking life may carry over in dreaming, forms transmuted

and content apparent only as metaphor. I should think there are
too many coincidental symbols, ah belay that,
I shan't dismiss post-hoc interpretation. All I wish to say is that

the presence of persons weighs heavy
on the scales of horn and ivory.
As we get older it's too easy to become

When Europeans came to America
they bought the island of Manhattan
from the Native Americans for tradestuff.

Supposedly the Natives (who did not actually
control the territory) thought this idea, that
one could 'own' land, was ridiculous.

The land does not belong to us,
We belong to the land.
Now Manhattan

is home to some of the highest valued
real-estate in the Western world, and
still it is such a ridiculous notion:

Ownership, valuations, land;
We own nothing except for
our minds (if even them).

Eventually Earth repossesses life.
This is the way it was, has been
and will be for all of time.

Gradually the ground reclaims
itself. Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.

Possession is always (con)temporary,
Just as subject and object are of
the same stuff so too must own-
ership open us up
to the equivalence
underlying a Hegelian dialectic.

The captain was right: control is an illusion.
There is only ever direction, and mind is that
process, which the human body offers up.

We fall prey to subject-object dichotomies
that breed from our own feeble illusions.

I say: praise be to memory.

The inevitable begs that
all information be free.

Time will take us all.

There's kings for drinking,
There's cups for smoking,
The dance-floor's for yoking,
Throw the doors open;
The chemical dimensions
beckon, and we gather
to answer their call.
We'll never be broken.

Don't feed the trolls.

To get belligerently drunk
feels so noble in the act,
As does reciprocity gained
from subtle amatory advance.
Who's to say
it's anything other than that?

I yearn for the simplicity
of treading water
in the company of one's
significant other,
To wander aimlessly
yet together.

Is that really so much;
Is it ever enough?

Tho escapism's enticing
give me any other drug

Of eye-openers, and time-dilation;
Thoughts' blossom at the fall of night:
Dusky lamplight below
a post-autumnal horizon,
The vista's indigo
tear-drop splotches
scar the skyglow

while wishing for moonlight.

I would not identify myself as religious, perhaps spiritual but if you were to ask me what of spirits I would reply: psychological projections, merely memory. So perhaps I am sentimental rather than spiritual.
I acknowledge all pantheons and can respect their traditions:
God, Allah, Brahma; their prophets, Gautama Buddha and so on;
But a god is a construct of the mind and the prophets were enlightened men of their time. I would call this belief Henotheistic Constructivism.

I do enjoy some drugs recreationally yet I also find spiritual elements to the use of some substances. Some people encounter these elements when they pray or meditate. I find it in the use of psychedelics. I see little difference in the method used to access this mode of consciousness, whatever you call it: divine, spiritual, mystical, religious, and so on. We are all looking for/towards the same state-of-being.

I do not discriminate between drug abuser and religious fanatic: both search for truth, propelled by belief, finding meaning in their seeking. Both drug use and religious belief should be conducted responsibly.

Sham; when I put that black coat on
I change. I look more dangerous
and feel more safe.
Try so hard to keep it interesting,
Hope the savant inside is still listening.

I know I'm going to be a ****** in the end,
How could I not.
I'm just trying to put it off
as long as I can;
Sardonicism and addiction.

“Our lives are not as limited as we think they are; the world is a wonderfully weird place; consensual reality is significantly flawed; no institution can be trusted, but love does work; all things are possible; and
we all could be happy and fulfilled
if we only had the guts to be truly free
and the wisdom to shrink our egos and quit taking ourselves so **** seriously.”

I must proclaim
at this juncture in my philosophy:


Apotheosis is idolatry,
Entheos is actuality.

I haven't been able to shake this
most recalcitrant feeling that the
best of my poetry lies behind me,
I know it's silly, still I feel it's true.

I don't know how to write anymore,
It is not composition to which I refer;
I do not have the will to express anger,
I do not have an interest in any treatise.

Even the depressive laments I transcribe
most ruminatorily do not appear to be of
any significant worth. Everything that I go
to transcribe I feel ashamed of. I lost interest
and have forgone my soul and all its contents.
Gone are the bashful stories
from my mischievous youth,
Gone are the great pondering
pieces I'd craft of the universe.
The poetry stalled, I am no use;
There's no meaning

I feel this at night, 'cause
during the day I'm not alive.

My depression hides so much better than yours,
You're pleading for attention
and I hate that.
We've all got problems,
Ever think about that?
I'm never going back there
and I'd **** to ensure that.

I lie under these covers,
Sickened by love.

I gotta put the mask on
and my hood up
'cause the socialite within me
will not halt.
He's an unstoppable machine
powered by ego while seeking esteem,
Is this really the way it has to be?
Lest the people know what's become of me.

Torrential thoughts eat me away
while "the sun is shining everyday."

The passions that run through my blood
compel me to stay on the wrong side of the sun.

Lonely people are always up
in the middle of the night,
Seeking out the half-light.

Searching eternally, tripping internally,
Nocturnal crusading
in a quest for meaning.

What's it all about;
This endless dreaming?

I love it; existence.
This sensation that I witness.

You see them on dance-floor, moving
like there's nothing else to the world.

The dark rays that encapsulate her
viewfully enumerate
the things that I can't say with words.

Definitive; that's my girl.

It usually goes something like this:
"Hey, where were you this morning?"
Wide awake and far too anxious
to think about socializing.
"Oh", [sheepishly] "I was sleeping."

"Yeah, what are up this weekend?"
Thinking about you,
I really like you, sighs
[exasperated sigh] "I'm working,
Really busy at the moment"

"You coming?"
I'm just not able
for it right now, have
to give it a miss. [measured reply]
"Yeah, I might be around"

The thing about lying is you inevitably
do it without thinking, use it to cover
up what you are really thinking about.*

Of course you're only lying to yourself.

I did not forget
nor did I lose myself
in remembering, Hallow's Eve
and all the memories by which we once
swore. It's Autumn, and the trees are wavering
as the sky darkens.

"Here come the rain."
The downpour put out
my foolishness, a fire's longing.


The embers' may be quenched yet
the ashes of nostalgia still yearn,
X marks the spot where love burned.