But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves.

I am a cage in search of a bird.

I am just a sad rock on the road, but when I remember your voice, I feel the strange green and dewy touch of my skin, so I smile. I am alone, like this bitter time, and I am only good at sadness. I write to you with sadness because I am from the sad land. The roads here are sad, the stories are sad, the hearts are sad, even the smiles are sad. We are here when we write, we write with sadness, when we read, we read with sadness, when we love we love with sadness, and when we laugh, we laugh with sadness. They stole our door and stole our windows, so the sadness entered our homes with air. We have become fish that breathe sadness, and when we are born, we are born with sadness because we know that behind our stolen doors and behind our stolen windows, nothing awaits us but sadness.

sometimes
there are no other words
that will do
no embellishment worthy,
no outpouring of devotion.
sometimes
all i can say is,
i miss you
more than i ever knew
my bones could take.

All these dreams.
Making me bust at the seams.
Feeling like life is new.
Thinking that I finally grew.
Walking along the fields.
Learning how to form my shields.
Trees standing taller than I.
Having my friends stand by.
Rekindling old friendships.
Getting away from the hardships.
The longer you are away.
The easier I find it is to play.
Being myself, doing me.
I'm joyous for all to see.
Before, after
Smiles, laughter.
Class no longer in session.
I am no longer the possesion.
Sleeping alone at nights.
See more beautiful sights.
Awake to freedom.
Running through my reclaimed kingdom.
Off to do as I see fit.
Nowhere for you to sit.

caustic ways to pilfer life
the sordid use of imagination

season of the sickened mind
grotesque subliminal permeation

reaching onward to spectral hands
the lure of purgatory settles in

Broken and abandoned,
The house has stood empty
Between woods and meadow
For twenty years.
From the side yards
Vines cover the shattered windows
And sagging porches.
Within, the house is empty,
Yet not.
Dust, filled with ghosts,
Creeps and roams in corners,
Then settles.
Lost in memory,
Bedrooms, kitchen, parlor,
Wait in silent reflection
Before gathering garlands of twilight.
In the attic,
Threads which once were curtains,
Sway on the dirge of a breeze.
Within the gate
Grass rolls like so much
Green fire.
Shingle by grey-weathered shingle,
Dreams gather
In once loved rooms
As the sun sets.