Desperate was the Hand,
To the Fist,
To the Door of Introspection,
To the Mind, to the Darkness.

Pounding, pounding away,
The broken bones,
To the dust of flesh.

A moment before forfeit,
The Great Gate collapses.
Bursting into a torrential tide of Madness,
This scornful swell swam deep into the Heart.
Its suffocating chill, mirroring the growing Dissent,
Resonating all of discord in a living Thought.

Hope's last stand sends deceit fleeing.
Rushing waves, shuttering away,
From the pathetic kindle.
Such a sad flicker, this bastion of salvation.

As with All Things, this too falls.
The Darkness, the Madness,
The Door to all Doors,
Consumes the Light.

Ripples of Darkness
I tire, weary from the day
Nightmares sail forward
Through a storm of closed eyelids

Eyes flutter, dare I sleep now
Visions, lightless creatures
They call to me, more rather
I am sure it is a scream

Haunting me like absent words
The ones which I've buried
That creative self, once more
But we rise again, always

I let these spectres wail
Who am I to stop creation
Paint the horrific, vibrant dusk
And I'll admire this truth

In pondering the blues,
Of folk music, writing, and culture
I began,
"What is my celebration of sadness?"
I thought.
I reveled.
Rebellion and the fall of man.
The toxic man, the cancerous man
Who filled me with hate, behavior
And most of all suffering.
I celebrate this fall,
In the beauty of change
In the beauty of self-love
And as I loved myself, I became
Able to love others, as I always had
But without borders, an empathetic truth.
To understand, accept and to struggle
With the human experience.
Which I imagine will always be the case
Struggle breeds change.
And it is that I am most thankful for.

I'm living on borrowed time
Sleeping on tomorrow's time
Most days I'm very particular about sleep.
About six and a half hours does the trick.

This evening we decided to share wine, two bottles.
Spur of the moment decision, it was only Monday.

(Is this what it feels like, a real relationship)

We laugh, we talk, she holds me, I return the favor.
Later, we make love for the first time.

She's been waiting, but so have I, for the first time.
I'm mesmerized, I take it slow, I want it to last.

We are open, we are honest.
I feel safe, so very unlike me.

There is no anxiety about this,
There is no self destruction.

She stays awhile, we exist in each others comfort.
She leaves, I walk her out, we say our goodbyes.

And I'm left thinking, I'm happy.
I'm thinking, its been such a long time.

So I've forfeited some sleep, in the hour of the lover.
To bring forth and borrow more tomorrows.

A year ago, I resolved to write,
Everyday, no matter what.
Noble in my intention, to let
These words Blossom
But impractical in my imprisonment

Papers and parchment became walls
Which grew hungry and full off anxiety
True to the nature of my failure
I felt every bit of imagination die
The magic engine chocked out, rusted
With failed expectations.

However, this creative vigor, this
Impossibly strong passion, sparked
Life once again, as it tends to do.

So I resolve once again, to write
But only as the wind blows

As the extraordinary rushes,
So will I, to the pages.

Surely we have
at least a page in every book we write,
where we brood over
all the things we lost.
And I have often found that page to be
most meaningful.
As if we become better humans
by this loss.
Often on those pages,
I have realized,
not all losses
are to be cried upon.