I stand convicted of emptiness.
I claim no pardon,  no accomplice,  no alibi.
I am executed slowly.

My Reason has judged me guilty:
of searching for love and finding hate;
of searching for peace and finding turmoil;
of searching for truth and finding lies;
of searching for comfort and finding pain.

I am condemned to the agonizing maze of crowded loneliness
rushing headlong into oblivion-
There will be no reprieve.

Time is my executioner-
he taunts me with fleeting ideas and hopeless hopes
as I crawl forward towards the noose,
haunted always by my destiny,
that dawns ever slowly.

wraith of white
you wander wild
the hinterland
Valkyrie's child

your breath pants mist
in icy caves
you have made
10, 000 graves

your image is
in winter skies
its crystal glitters
in your eyes

loping through
the cold chill wood
its secrets you
have understood

born to lead
long of fang
through the glaciers
your voice rang

lonely in your Lycan heart
you made the ****
your kindest art

wolf of legend
wolf of lore
you'll reign untamed

forevermore


soulsurvivor
(C) 2/16/2014
Rewritten 6/12/2015

The sky is crying,
While the sun and the moon
are are arguing and fighting,
The thunder is screaming,
and the lightning was steamy. . .

my life can be explained
quite simply as
a paradigm
shift

had a job once for two days
working nights
on airplane parts
I quit

had a girl once
we made love in a
sailboat
and she drifted
away

went to seek
enlightenment
and found
it
fleeting

called out god's name
when I needed
help
forgot it all
when i was
well

walked through
the valleys
along
the mountaintops
and fell

to my knees
with graceful
thankfulness
but
as

much as I tried to hold it all
it fell
through my hands
like water
shifting

a paradigm
mystery
I think
of how
to hold on

You have planted your feet
into the ground, as if the roots
of oak and willow trees
will bend and grow
around you

But the land is cruel
and unremorseful, it will
flood or famine or even
walk. The flowers full
of pollen, singing as
they sting

Yet you will tend them
tenderly, unaware of
the rage of a buried
thing. You will water
them and name them,
talk to them, sometimes

Your feet are in the ground,
now, and you cannot run
away, fight or flight, stuck
in time, in land, vegetables
surfacing, ivy climbing, as
you are forced to eat the
orange petals, that rebelled
against your claim of
ownership

You must have a mind of winter...*

A gelid wasteland.
Your mittens disappear.
It feels cold without hands
and a ***** when your nose runs.
Winter chips your heart away
like flakes from a butter sculpture.
You are writing the secret history of Ice.
You never can discover the end.
Time has frozen into fragments.
Each fragment blasts a finale.
Let your reader choose the period
Crawl back into bed.
Clutch the covers to your chest.
Dream of laughing flamingos.