There was a snake
in your wineglass
or so you swore,
clutching your belly
like betrayal poured into your gut.

But it was a bow,
hanging quiet on the wall,
its shadow curved like doubt,
and still
you burned with poison
that was never there.

You made yourself sick with what you thought you saw.

Then there was the runner
barefoot prophet chasing fire,
arms outstretched like hope could be wrestled
from the sky.

He drank rivers dry
and still died of thirst.
His cane fell
and trees grew from the grave.

He never caught the sun.
But the sun scorched his name
into the earth.

You may never reach glory, but you’ll die a sermon if you run hard enough.
That’s the second lie.
Or maybe it’s truth.

Then came the fool,
eyes wide,
looking down a well
and seeing the moon trapped like a silver ghost.

He ran for a hook
not sense
and tried to fish the night from the water.
Rope snapped.
Back cracked.
Moon untouched.

And he still smiled,
told everyone
he’d saved the sky.

Delusion is lighter to carry than disappointment.
That’s the third lie.
The one we keep.

And now, you.
Drinking shadows.
Chasing fire.
Hooking reflections.

You build temples from misunderstanding.
You tattoo your fears on glass
and swear they bit you.

But the venom is your own.
The sun never owed you warmth.
And the moon was never drowning.

You were.

So here’s the truth within
We suffer by choice,
die by obsession,
and live inside illusions
that wear our fingerprints like mirrors.

Look close
it’s not the snake,
not the sun,
not the moon.

It’s you.

from the outside
under the old tree
thick with time
i wait.
not sure what for.
the wind moves like a thought
no one says out loud.
soft.
close.
familiar.
but not mine.

i hear it anyway.
it tells things
you only hear
when no one's looking.
quiet truths that press into the skin
and stay there.

somewhere
kids laugh,
easy, open,
like sunlight doesn’t cost anything.
i watch.
behind the edge.
like someone half-drawn.
they belong to it.
i don’t.

i stand still
in a world that moves
without checking
if i’m coming.
they bloom
and i stay seed.
they fill the air
i hold the space
they forget.

i was the one chasing birds
while they made games out of dirt and sky.
i went where the path stopped.
i liked the quiet places
because they didn’t ask me questions.
the forest didn’t mind
if i said nothing.

the stars blinked like answers
that didn’t need to explain themselves.
i liked that.
the trees bent like they were listening.
that meant something.
but still,
this feeling follows me
like fog
just enough to blur things.

i want what they have
the touch
the motion
the easy belonging.
i want to matter
in someone else’s
ordinary day.

but nature
you don’t ask for anything.
you just are.
and maybe with you,
i can just be too.
not too much.
not too little.
just here.

still,
i find myself on the outside.
looking in.
a quiet figure
by the water’s edge.
and i wonder
not loudly,
but real enough
why i always wake up
in someone else’s dream.

Square breathes ash
gaslight’s twitch,
flickering truth
in a puddle of pitch.

He croaks.
"Come buy, come bite"
His tongue a hook,
his grin not right.

Crow gathers.
Eyes rusted shut.
Morals on mute.
Hope? Cut.

Meat swings
arms of the disappeared,
femurs of the faithful
nothing’s sacred here.

Prices sing:
A thigh for a thrill,
A pence for the tongue
that once whispered, still.

Butcher’s plate shines,
not silver—just red,
a pile of love
now splendidly dead.

"Step in! Step up! It’s holy, it’s hot!"
He laughs in cleavers,
bones in a knot.
His fingers glide ribs
like memory lost
No guilt. No name.
Just meat and cost.

These veins once ran
with lullabies.
Now they pulse
in motherless cries.

Who spun the blood
into life’s first thread?
Gone now.
Unwoven.
Unsaid.

Eyes
once torches,
now jars of fog.
Dreams rot faster
in this catalogue.

And still it hums
the stall, the street,
with coins that clink
and boots that beat.
Souls
unstitched
in stalls of shame,
each cut a prayer
without a name.

The heart
oh God, that fragile crime
now skewered,
oozing
beet-red rhyme.

It once held hymns.
It once held grace.
Now it sells for less
than a hollow face.

What’s beauty?
What’s form?
What’s breath to a knife?
What’s hunger but theft
disguised as life?

Reverence? Gone.
Devotion? Flayed.
The altar’s now
a butcher’s blade.

No psalms.
No sacred lull.
Only meat,
and the market’s pull.

He sings decay
a hymn of ache,
as crowds buy flesh
and morals break.

The stars won’t blink.
They’ve seen this play.
Where bones are stock,
and gods decay.

Hooks sway like ghosts
in post-mortem sleep
no tears for the sold,
no cries for the keep.

We sell,
we chew,
we grin,
we choke
on the sins we bought
but never spoke.