Stop personifying our oceans;
pollution set adraft like lopsided grins
the eye of the storm within the palm of a breaking seascape escape
the white horses, live and vivacious upon stormy greys

Stop humanizing the catastrophe;
thou should not subject
poor innocent ocean beasts
to the pain of humanity - have you no compassion for searing tides?

Some hold curses on their tongues,
Tight with stiff and achy arms around their waists,
Hugging themselves until they can't breathe and can only smile,
Eyes twinkling in uncertain inane gestures.

They aspire to think that two colours means two perspectives,
Equal sight from varied shades,
One blue, soft like the ocean, a reflection of the darkened sky,
One green, the colour of ripe apples and fresh air.
They see the world through tinted glasses,
Not red from a rose, believing lands to be green and sunlit,
Nor ***** grey like blooming storm clouds, perishing thoughts of joy,
A tinge of green and blue, calm and chaos, forever entwined in ying and yang.

Anarchy reins as an agent of peace, twisted in its convolution,
The more laid waste the more spared for time to come,
Chaos sits on their throne, eyes sparkling with insight,
Clothes ablaze in a fury matched only by that of a grieving mother.
It is the only predisposition that the world shall change,
Colours ever moving and mixing on the canvas of life,
Beauty melding to disgust, hate twirling to love, more declining to less,
A world is not a world without father Chaos at the helm, steering ships into rocky harbours.

What's the point of a film with no explosion at the end?

The words
that she
left too
long out
of the
chains
tasted like
stale
bread
so she
stopped
tasting
them
and they
came out
gluttonous
beggars
always
biding
for her
tongue.

Down in the belly of my beast
I slit my eyes
I key my teeth
Sharp, and thick, and fat, and creep
The walls are gum
Fade, and sluice, and slither on
My shoulders rise in prowling stance
I court the darkness for a dance
And whisper not, the final kin
For words are valueless
To the lost ilks of murk
And their leaded dogs

Body thrums
A housed hive
Fingers climb
Sky's light

Cobwebs paint her house homely,
the little bungalo by the beach,
walls thin enough to let the rushing sounds of the tide fill her room,
a permanent ocean backdrop,
sand smoothing her floor like welcome mats,
shells dressed upon her mantle like trophies,
all the be released back into the sea,
studied for their beauty, brought to the reflective window light,
before thrown back into the ocean,
consumed by the salty fire,
dug back deep into the sand for another child to find,
and call their own,
before bestowing freedom upon the once living mantle piece.

Sunlight trickles like an early morning wake up call,
and she stokes the fire pit,
spitting embers like insults,
brewing smoke to fill her home once more,
as fire burns her heart black and dreams paint her eyes a ghostly purple.
She is witch blood,
she thinks as she dances on the beach,
smiling in a way that had to be learnt,
singing nonsense words that she is not ashamed to sell,
feet soaked by the water that threatens her tiny shack,
sand dipped between her toes,
washing off so quickly like her forgotten worries.

Just her,
the house,
and the beach.

draft me for the silken dreams
raft my hopes on a desolate ocean
allay the terrified cruise of waves
magnify heathen's hope tenfold

and yet I spare the allocated freedoms

The poet,
Notice how none call writer,
Notice how she does not call herself,
Notice how the poem plays on when she is gone,
Notice how poet does not recognise poem.

The poet,
Words do not make it so,
The rhyme and rhythm is secondary,
Speech is a privilege not a commandment,
Defined by inside not the pretence.

The poet,
Expression comes in many forms,
Of late night lunches and barely hidden smiles,
Grimaces painted like cold baritones in her chest,
Poetry is not what makes the poet,

The poet,
Is made of daisies,
Is curled 'round buttercups and beers,
Is twisted like fine wine,
Is mountainous drops of emotive chills,

The poet,
Is not alive,
Does not ask for forgiveness,
Does not read the grateful limericks,
Does not walk the line of truth and ignorance.

The poet,
Is an animal of freedom,
A whispered wisp of breath,
The closed eyes of the girl huddled to the fire,
Is tears upon his cheeks.

The poet,
Is not afraid,
Not a monster,
Not a hero,
Is only one.

The poet,
Nameless beast is she,
Forged from her sight,
Trees broken down to fight,
And holy mimicry.

Likened to a wave,

the overhead cloud ringing out
mutterings of daffodils and burps of bees
the land resists, smooth and indefatigable,
persisting tirelessly,

rolls of sharpened grasses
rising up in an unheeded swarm
the breath halts in the chest
like a grand mistress unsheathing her sword,

we siphon off the dregs of courage
bottle out the bravery
there are mountains of battles to fight
and only a mind of resistance tonight.

I am the truth hiding behind your lies,
the joke that pounds like dynamite in your skull,
the whispered presence that calls for salvation,
the darkened eyes of the boy next door who looks

so haunted.

I am the truth,
hiding within your smile,
within the
flecks of gold
and sparkles
in your eyes,
the smile that
never ceases
and
never stops,
the smile that
makes me
wonder what is

real enough.

I am the vaulted raindrop that hangs in your hair,
I cling to you, so tightly, my arms around your chest,
my cheekbone rests gentle on your
morning wrinkles
the eyes that do not wish
to open
the sleep that
makes you
frown
a worker's
grimace,
the drop that
adds to
your wrinkles
to your
sopping
hair that
never seems
to dry,
I stare from above your mountain,
taking vantage of your morning route,
listening to the
whispers
which you
brush to the side

they're not real.

Poems can't hold the pounds of words I want to spill
It's absorbed all the linguists it can take by now
I've got nothing left, nothing good
My gums hurt, my beds hotly humid,
I'm weighed down, the rage has abandoned me once more,
I can't cope like this, when even my coping tastes like defeat.

I stay home and sty my own attempts to leave
I'm out on a mission to block all the exits
like the opposite of a safety sergeant
and the flames are crawling up the walls
like assassins in their pitch black suits of night
and I can't breathe in this air while I'm burning my own mask.

I am a reckless writer
I plan no poems
I throw myself
violent
hardy
head-first into the words
as the world roars around me
let them consume me
let my mind run

I have nothing beautiful left to say,
only the awkward sound of the
crinkled up chip packet
the crumbs dust my fingers
like police ink on my thumbs
and I lick them clean
blood painting my tongue red and
heartwarming.

I am empty within my eyes,
only left with soulless husks of
before
before the wind howled my bedroom shut
before the screaming storm hid my screams
before the rain that trickled in through the cracks in the ceiling
hid my tears from sight
before the footsteps that banged like metal plates
hid the fist banged against the inside of my cavernous mouth.

I am full,
expanded like a hot air balloon
filled to the brim until my
throat is slicked in slimy truths
and my stomach pushes at my
ribs
my heart hangs heavy like Christmas baubles
within the cavity of my chest
which is slowly being
filled by the
butterflies brewing
within my tonsils.

I mourn the moon,
always high in the sky
hung like lights
forgotten so soon
stared from afar
red dripped acrylic traced in its outline
taught in schools
quoted in poems and literature
metaphorically stunted
admired and painted
but never understood.

I mourn the moon,
for those who see
do not gaze with no judgement
do always ask for more
do never look close enough
do not befriend the moon
only stare as if
it were
not truly
there.

I mourn the moon,
the crescent moon
that all see broken
as part of a whole
splintered off
separate and incomplete
never stopping
never pausing
to question
if the moon
in shadow
simply likes the
dark.

I mourn the moon,
the beauty
that even I
do not befriend
the mooning orb
that never comes close enough
hanging just off
titled away
axis parched and pursed
afraid to come close
be scorned for
the light.

take my money
take my house
take my husband
take my body
take my heart
take my life

just leave me my boy.

I have plundered your ebullience,
dipped my talons in between the breathing slits of your vivacious presence,
I hunger for such exuberance,
my eyes widen with euphoria,
a leech of all that ripe and tender effervescence,
a singed wick upon the temple of your tranquility,
I will not let you be,
O I am truly your misery.

I held my
tongue
so long
that it has
withered
like a
dying vine
within my
throat
and I can
only rasp
of things
I wished
to say.

The words sit heavy on her tongue,
she has held them in too long,
it is too late to speak,
if she does it will come out rotten,
the fruit will be pasted,
she cannot speak like this,
it is not her right any longer,
she does not care if they want her to,
it is not okay to say it is not okay,
she does not believe in hope,
it pools in her throat like soured milk,
she feels the symptoms of a cold,
the reddened eyes,
the congested smile,
the curled in bed,
the stomach ache,
the heart that beats too much,
the running legs that do not run,
the eyes that can't seem to close,
the fingers that,
tap,
skip,
hop,
dance,
always moving,
on the move,
she needs to move,
she has to run,
it has been too long.

She thinks that no one could believe her,
for it is not true,
not really,
it can't be,
it is only her feeling this way,
she must be wrong,

it is the only answer.

She cannot seem to say anything beautiful,
all she can do is,
close her eyes,
shut her mouth tight,
curl her arms like
reaching embraces
hotly pooled down her throat
a blush upon her
mottled eyes
and she is
sparkling
heavenly
curled into a
dance that
she cannot control
limbs
jabbing out like
sparking
fireworks
sparkling like
glittered
eyelashes upon
evening lakes
sunset bleeding against
her
bleeding reflection
she is

she is

silent.

The words don't come out right.

They come out stuttered and garbled,
she does not think they would listen anyway,
she cannot seem to understand,
she cannot accept,

the moon is not
forgiving of her
plight
she stares
beseeching
to its
empty
gaze and
it does not
reply
to the
whispered
words
prayers
pleadings that
choke her
stick upon her throat
and
she
cannot
breathe

her lungs fail her once more
it must be her fault.

she never thought she would have to
it had never been her
she still does not believe it
it is not true

It is a sad realisation
when you remember
that you are perfectly capable
of extraordinary talents

I ring this bell
today, and forever
and I come to the door
but I do not let myself in

I held
my tongue
so long
that my
calloused hands
no longer
wish
to hold my
weight

the roof
has never
seemed
so high up.

Staring, casually, with equal amounts of obsession and gazing away,
Foot tapping under desks, with measured patience,
Eyes trailing over long hair and glasses,
Asking if she got the glasses fixed,
Smiling when she replies, and a conversation is struck.

Ignoring the books, a delicate balance of work and talk,
Laughing and remembering why she like her,
Spinning puns and irony into dark humour with a twist,
And perhaps staring at her lips too long.

Watching aimlessly as they part ways,
Her walking sedately off to other friends,
Trying not to stare too long as she leaves,
And look like a lovesick puppy.

Sitting on the bus alone,
Staring outside the window, breath puffing against it,
Missing the time they shared a bus,
Spoke every day in sync,
And now seemed years apart.

Her heart catches in their throat,
As she smiles at it is radiant,
Cheeky perhaps, with a half cynical tilt to her lips,
Just just as alluring.

I want to run
until my legs fall off.

I want to run
until my stomach caves in.

I want to run
until my head screams.

I want to run
until the doors gape open.

I want to run
until the wind fears my speed.

I want to run
until I outgrow you.

I want to run
until the pain stops.

I want to run
until my dreams soften.

I want to run
until the bones break.

I want to run
until the pounding resembles life.

I want to run
until I am home again.

He glitters
with the
empty valleys
of his
own
beautiful
treachery

such beauty
on one
human
is surely
a sin

is surely
the thief
that has
stolen
my breath

is surely
the eyes
that burn
blushes against
my
arched
skull

he is
more than
what he
seems

it is
fated so
that he would
be
magical
and
mirthless
and

miraculous

Fleeting,
Its all so fleeting,
Whizzing past on slim fitting wings,
Buzzing away as quick as a bee,
Shooting off like a rocket,
And you cannot truly see it until it is gone,
Just in memories or nightmares,
Of things you love,
But didn't love enough,
And can only hold onto the hope that it will return.
Happiness,
Moves on so fast,
At the whim of a comment or stare,
At the flick of a thought of the tip of a tongue,
So heavenly and cruel,
Too fast and invisible,
And you barely know it is gone until you miss it,
And are crying.
Love,
Moves along such as anything else,
Let it be a day,
A year,
A decade,
A lifetime,
It ends just as anything does,
At the cruel smile of another,
Or tears of apology and forgiveness,
Love is immeasurable,
But so longed for,
For to be loved is to be wanted like nothing before,
To be addicted,
Obsessed,
But allowed to do such.
Time,
Passes just as oceans and rocks do,
Burned back or blown away with the sands of time,
Wearing away at us all,
Rusting buildings and lives,
Creating and destroying in an eternal cycle,
And eventually time will pass to,
Heart beats will all stop,
The breaths will end soundlessly,
The wind will no longer blow,

And there will be nothing.

what begins as a game
always ends as war
as I forgo my speech
twist tongues to silence
such an act lives in danger
what begins as rebellion
always ends as a netted trap
my arms are the panicked fish
bodies flayed as they drown in oxygen
I breathe in my idiocy
not to speak
it is to surrender blissfully

The years we've known together,
they linger on, like words we've held in.

Reality lived up to standards I'd set only in dreams,
That conversation,
So long that we were scared to sleep,
and wake,
and never speak again.

In the hidden cracks that night-time holds,
we held the same secret
in entwined hands
and I knew you too had seen
my own enemy

A startled sensation
that travels,
skates and skimps and scampers
all the way from my bones,
to muscles,
to the freckles of my goosebumps.

What misery it is to be understood,
to finally speak aloud your darkest calling,
to be in that finest, closest embrace,

and then reflect,
a month later,
in the chill of night,

It didn't make a difference, after all.

I am allergic,
yet,
I keep coming back.

Dried tears taste like salt,
And spit,
And snot,
And bitterness.
They stick to the back of the throat like a frog,
Burn when they come out,
And leave tear tracks of pain and sadness behind,
Like twisted presents.

beautiful friend,
I hold memories in hand
a sunshine filtered emotionality
place to land
a sharing, a made peace
wishfulness and longing
hope, future fieldtrips
gifts abound
haplessly spiritual

i am grateful
for this
winding wending
second path

a clamped hold
as if
to let go
is to fall
indefinitely

this pressure
this hearty pulse
reminds me
of
how it feels
to be alive

i close my eyes
i pay my debts
i sleep until
all is returned
and
tomorrow, we feast
on the rewards
of carefully articulated
self care

He walked out as she was leaving,
Brushing fingertips and sleeves as they pushed past,
Eyes roving over their futures,
And never once pausing to look behind.

Her first job was done at the pace of a tiger,
Sight set on promotion,
Not once breathing in the low tide air-freshener,
Feeling feet tapping in impatience to move.

She perched from her ivory tower,
Gazing out at fortunes she vaguely recalled,
Mind hammering against her skull,
Screaming for more, for change, for evolution.

On her wedding day she strode down the aisle thinking of tomorrow,
Veil hanging limply, arch curled overhead and entwined with red and white roses,
Perfectly planned, to the seating placement,
Artistically sculpted smiles on the spouses.

She gazed into eyes,
A brilliant blue, stark and bold,
Staring back at her with might and purpose,
Lips parted slightly in breath.

On the birth of her daughter she thought of colleges,
Of names that would forever define them,
Of twisted last names threaded into the title of her offspring,
Of little girls with blonde hair playing on swings.

She let out a breath at the funeral,
Arms hanging limply as a man she hadn't known fell silent,
Another veil over her head,
And an empty future blossoming in front of her.

Tea drained down her throat, thick and soothing, like a mother's touch,
The porch creaked beneath her, sunlight shining shadows through autumn leaves,
And she smiled,
Never once thinking of all she had achieved.

Only the beauty of that autumn day.

I swallowed my tongue
but I didn't choke down

Seagulls whispered their prayers
in that funny chip-stealing way of theirs
those opposite eyes
and burning beaks
they flew me down

I took the ocean
one swing, gone
I burned it to the ground
and although that seems fake
everything does these days

Most winsome,
most fresh,
appealing
so delicious
to the naked eye
and
naked flesh

gorgeous skin
that reaches
so far
not an inch
that is
not captivating
is not
alluring

so provocative
the stance
the eyes
the glow
the dimmed fire
the heat

so entrapping
let it linger on your tongue
let the taste remain
decadence at its
most
entrancing

the dance
the swing
the pull and push and shudder
lift her high
lift the disembodied
leg
up as you sway
let the dip
reach the tangled
ends of the
soiled floor
let grass leech up
grip tightly to your ankles
as you twirl
connected only
by the most
finite of toes

breathe,
honey badger,
through the nose
let the smell
waft
like summer winds
and winter rains
the sky blooms green for you
aurora aurora
'tis not science
but magic
evanescent in its passing
only a flicker in time

she holds the moon in her arms
it falls heavy like a babe's head
it murmurs against her hairy skin
her smile is not quite a smile,
but a charm,
it twinkles,
tinkles,
crinkles,
chimes and sings,
as the wind rubs against it
like warm farm hands

the callouses
have such candor
care for such softness
one would imagine that
it was not
only a visualisation
not only a whisper of the night
but tangible to be held

all you see,
is all you get,
and all you get,
is only half true.

the feeling is fleeting,
it skids,
ice melting under tacky bubble gum shoes,
on the boundless plains of ire in my mind,
clean swept,
I observe this foreign invader,
trace its figure for clues,
has it come here for me,
or is that too self assured?

welcome to the
haunted hallowed hawthorn
home
we open our
skeletal facsimile
beams
and let you
in

down
down
follow the
whispered chant
it will
beckon
it will
taste
but never
shall you
deign it
'surrender'

fluttered pieces
flickered flesh
muttered misters
and loneliness

we chastise
the vacuous abyss
of your eyes

blink

i dare you

will you
gaze
your grips
on fettered
sounds
the imprisoned
moans
of innocent
souls
it bites, it cleaves, it runs, it rams

but does it sing, my darl?
does it light up your world?

their treasured yawn
is taste enough
so hear me,
hear me,
for naught but the buttered price
of
princely royalty.

Weigh me
down
until my feet
are tied to concrete
and the sun
doesn't burn my hair
like forest fires
any longer.

I am
free flying
a dangerous sport
for those
unaccustomed
to safety
it tastes
like bitter promises
of dark chocolate
and tinted
soap suds.

Merrily
****** me quickly
before I see the stars
too long
and can no
longer love
the dark
that has been a
gentle lover
for longer
than is normal.

We walk the road of truth,
yet evade thy scenery,
i saw the ****** in your eyes,
but rerouted past your ammunition,
the one that held your hand as the trigger clicked,
the truth lacked space for their voices.

I am married to my brain,
its a
life long
partnership
that I
never agreed to.

When did you
decide
to be born,
is it not
a violation
to split
the thread
of the universe
with your
birth
like a
bullet
to the
brain.

We're in love,
you see,
deeply
submerged
in each
other,

we'll never part,
or,
we'll positively die
if we do.

Marriage is a
battle,
its a
war zone,
but in ours
there are no words,
only thoughts,
that never leave,

until
we part,
until
death do us part.

And my brain
wants
a
divorce.

There is a kind world,
waiting,
beneath the surface of the one we made,

just dig a little.

whittled song hath hollowed my bird bones
it seems like every embrace of night heeds my wails
perhaps it is but a flight of neverending destiny
that I would collide with an usurping infinity

A monster
lies in wait
shrouded in dark
festooned in
onyx curls
of brilliant
disguise

its teeth
are as long
as my arms
and I wonder
how long
it has hidden
in my veins
like poison
its nails
brushing against
the bed
of my own

I dare not blink
not sleep
don't move
I am insensate
and frozen
this pitiful
state
has only just
begun
but it feels
as if I have
layed here
for eternity

the monster
never leaves
although
sometimes
it sleeps
and I taste
the infuriating tease
of lush reprieve

it always
comes back
no matter
how far
I shove
it down.

Maybe there is a reason for that.

Poetry is as dark as night
It is a mortal sin which crawls like bugs under my skin and makes me think
Sweet painful absolute thoughts
Of ****** truths and naked insults.

Poetry, you beast, foul creature I've possessed
You make me try to see myself
Make me try and let the walls down and
Drop my achy mouth from its plastic smiles.

Don't make me understand, or realise
That all will be better soon
Don't sing praises and preach quotes
Of rainbows and green fields.

Let me wallow in my misery
Moan of 'oh woe the world is cruel to me'
Bypassing guilt and self hatred and
Eye opening openness.

Don't fill my ears with cries of
'Could have been worse'
'At least you're not them'
'You have a family'
'Don't be so selfish'.

Poetry you sinful pleasure, you crooked slash across my throat
Don't force me to call you beautiful
When you are treacherous
And push me too far.

I want
For once
To cry
And not say to myself
'at least you don't want to die'.

I want
To sing my problems
And
Hear no snide comments
About how 'I aint the only girl with issues'

Poetry, you expressionistic trench-coat
Shield me with your overused rhymes and metaphors
Oh, poetry, I beg of you, curl your arms around me tight
So I won't feel so cold with only myself

And those voices

Begging

Tauntingly

Pleading

With me not to cry.

Poetry, treasure trove of my soul
Let me pour all my crap into you
So its gone
From me
And I don't have to carry it any longer
With red raw hands and splintered nails
From scratching at the surface too long.

Poetry, tree for me to burn black and blue
Let me bruise you
Let me tear my pages
Draw insulting doodles on your skin
Covering my writing.

Poetry is my deepest valley
Filled with things I just can't say
Piled high with problems I don't want to comprehend
Compressed until people just

Look away

And convince themselves.

I am a vampire under the full moon,
Live by day,
Cursed by night,
Trapped in a never ending cycle of thought and discord.

My wings spread darkly over open plains,
Casting shadows and whispered ruffles of black feathers,
Bleeding profusely in the morning sun,
Making my spine arch and wince against the heat.

I am a monster,
I know that now,
Forever trapped in the body of a girl,
And haunted of deeds I have not committed.

I ebb and flow with the tides,
Changing soul as they wash in and curl out,
Watching the darkened oceans rise to light with morning,
And seeing morning fail to the bitterness of nighttime.

Come dawn I smile and shine like the sun,
Hug friends as if we were lovers,
Make jokes as if I held humour,
Hold hands as if mine weren't claws.

By dusk the change sets in,
Sinking bones out of place in my skin,
Reflecting battled moonlight off my crimson gaze,
Pulling tears of blood from my bitten lips.

I walk in and out of shadows,
Basking in the treacherous darkness that completes me,
Holding my own bleeding heart in my hand,
And crying as if I had a right to.

At night I am not a girl,
No, when alone and surrounded I am gone,
Off with the breeze,
And my soul is taken by a ghoul of definite cruelty.

Thoughts bleed into my skull,
Drip dangerously down until I am drowning,
Pulling old rhymes and repeated phrases,
Until even the monster is crying inside me.

I hold out a shaking hand,
Lift it up above the tree-line,
Stretching limbs as if they were rubber,
And waiting,
Always waiting,
To see if someone could pull me up.

Monster or not.

The shell is quite capable of decision,
it even believes the choice is always there,
it even smiles sometimes when you poke it,
laughter is a common sight for the shell,
it is rarely given reason to fright or shake.

We wish we were younger -
when every flaking drift of sleet was magic
and the crinkles around father's brow
was a historic moment
laughter was common place
exploration seeped into the skin
and our own wonder lay exotic yet forgotten

We wish we were older-
so that the wisdom we yearn has already arrived
so that we open our eyes and see
echoes of the kaleidoscope of life we always wish to see

so that meaning is more than stripes on a dashboard
and we look back and smile winsome and fresh
with yellow tinted teas and teeth
eyes twinkling with ancient promise

if we're older we made it,
and there is temptation in such security,
to wish away one's precious moments

We wish the clocks would tick back-
so that time was more forgiving
quiet and prehistoric
with large looming dinosaur trees caressing our flesh and sights
we could breathe once in a while
our eyes may flicker away from the day and into the sky
and at night we would lay beneath a blanket of boundless wonder

back then,
no one knew what lay in the stars,
so angels existed in more than dreams and
wishes

We wish for the world to end-
the fires raging in our hearts
catching alight at every stray ember
from the black choked plumes of smoke,

we want the burn
the pain
we want to feel it
to live
and breathe it
until
our lungs collapse

we would huddle like slick pelted penguins
a barricade of togetherness
the furies of nature fighting back would unite us
and some long for the seductress of community
to hold us and embrace us like our tech-enslaved mothers never did

We wish for the years to pause, then fold in on themselves-
and we would awaken
from stasis
with wild brains and gaping mouths
lips forever parted in childhood wonder
at the indescribable nature of the future

there is always hope in the future,
for the future is everything
we seek
but never eventuate

we wish,
we surrender,
we pledge our souls to the almighty cause,
never once pausing,
in Our time
to think that
if we let it

this could be paradise.

I'd wish my life away if I knew how,
just click,
hands poised,
world already spun,
all the hard bits over with.

Just Too Big.

Three words sounds like nothing, but beneath there are fountains of knowledge.

Just- this is the word of no excuse,
it is the finalising phrase,
it cuffs off the gnarled edge of argument,
it stalls and betrays simpering,

Just suggests finality,
it muses over a resolution,
a simplicity,
JUST too big leaves no room for excuses,
no alternatives,
it is a cove,
a cover entrapping the heart,
merciless and without temptation.

Too - it suggests excess,
it reveals a limit,
there are boundaries in this world,
at one point it is not too big,
at one point the line is drawn,
we all step beside the line - either past or before,

there is a quota.

Big - large and luxurious,
grand and reaching,
looming,
rolling,
it is more,
it is much,
it is a caveat of treasured rolls,
big alone is nothing,
big in abstract, in isolation,
shielded in the tight embrace of a vacuum,
is meaningless,
but paired with Just,
paired with finality,
paired with Too,
paired with limits,

Big becomes itself,
and makes a name.

Big begins to suffocate.

the weaver never asks himself,
why the webs are so frail.

the songstress will always sing,
except if the world doesn't listen.

A milky veil trickles across your window,
it has the same consistency as cloud,
and as fingers run from edge to edge,
you sigh, as if pleasured, by this translucent skin.

Your body is as still as stone,
neither lungs lifts its arms to heave,
rather you are stagnant, and dead,
like dust.

The room is round,
you wonder if rolling along the walls is,
a bit not great,
but still descend down the ***** of portrait to portrait.

There is no depth, nor charity,
within or outside this room,
but somewhere, in the walls,
you once thought you heard a voice.

It was silky, and thin,
like the air swallowed at the peak of a cliff,
huffed in and out like last breaths,
stale like last meals, except it was perfect.

This hollow chant does not pass,
it hedges on the oval of your palm,
and as you splash your face with
milky flesh, the life returns.