so bare and weathered
with senses dead like leather
the depth has been measured
we're not here together

you were my only pleasure
life was as light as a feather
for worse or for better?
that pledge is dead forever

It was a national day
I pieced myself together
From remains of melancholia  
You asked about the weather
I said it looked like a tornado
I'm spinning into a dreary dream
You laughed the way roses wilt away
And took another sip from a broken glass of wine

I watched the garden untangle itself
In the breeze of an April's December
Hanging holiday lights with whiskey breath
Your hair tangled in knots
Like bows on unopened presents
I remember the shade of Crimson
That you left across the white picket fence
When the rain poured and tried to wash it all away

Poetry, you dazzled my eye
teased me with unearthly visions;
got me too high.

Primed my soul to fly to heaven
then marooned me upon the earth
sixed for seven.

You called across celestial shores
glowing in empyrean colors
then shut your doors.

Lost in your amusing mazes
I followed fast your golden thread
through dark phases.

Muse-abused and undelivered
my heartstrings wavered, stalled, then stopped –
arrows quivered.

Poetry – you’ve cheated on me;
winked and flirted, then escorted
Philosophy!

Spare me further cantos, curses,
keep your holy delirium,
unhinged verses…

On second thought, oh Lady cruel –
humiliate me – lead me on.
(I’m still your fool.)

*******, queen of the word
for you I’ll suffer untold shame.
I’m undeterred.

if god does indeed exist
i doubt he will be able to hear us
until we grow enough
that we can look him in the eye

Did you ensure
Your qualifications

as

A load bearing wall
Before attempting to lift

the

Injured bird
Off the ground

I know who I know,
but thy mind not know itself,
a violet in a field of millions knows better.
a burnt oak amongst miles of earth,
thirsty, no fruit to bear.
words cower in fear from lips that wish to speak,
blanketed by the ambiance of uncertainty.
this thick fog is pointless and empty.
to slice through it seems impossible,
Balance and peace,
but only if there's something there.

Deep and dark dirt,
worms of mother earth feed on
another young soul, soft,
smelling the lilacs.
They taste thy taste of love,
a fire now buried in sand, once
to light a thousand torches.
They taste thy taste of sorrow,
that vile bog of sadness that rips at
the curtains of sanity.
They taste thy taste of deceit,
of rotten completion in her roots,
a sour taste in the soil of Denmark
worms doth hastily spit out this flower.