you share with me such hurtful words
that are a balm to
my kindred soul.

they hurt as they leave your summer wine lips
and drip like molten wax
upon my chest,
and heart,
and mind,
and touch my soul...

verse after verse.

you entwine my eroded coil
within your moonlight glow,
and tell me all the things
I so hungrily needed to know.

you wrap my broken hands
within your silken ones.

I crave to part your lips,
and share in such a melody.
that starlight hum.
that midnight medley.
that dark and ever-glowing sonnet
that brought you to my desolation.

I yearn to kiss them with my ones,
those lips as warm as starlight flame,
as perfect as the heart of night,
as young as time itself.

but mine are blistered
by frigid winds,
and bloodied from some fist
I've recently had to stomach...

A muse will amuse herself with little interaction that spark the fires of artistic endeavor.

A muse will amuse herself with the poking and proding of the weather beaten beast that boasts of great skills in the caging of thoughts and feelings.

A muse will wither away in a place where there is nothing to amuse herself with...

Therefore she will search for that one hunter that can track down the wildest of ideas, the one that can take down the most dangerous experiences and tame them for the masses.

She will land on the shoulders of that one predator that can drag prey into the dwelling of the many and feed them all with the morsels of this glorious hunt.

So hunt on, dear hunter.
Hunt on and be the plaything of thine muse.

Can you write with a broken pen?

Can you send out the words that reverberate within your soul if the inkwell has dried out?

Can you scribble away at your own thoughts if the paper has been hollowed out by grief?

Can you author a better future with nothing but your bleeding fingers?

you brandish most beautiful eyes at me
as our paths cross
in the city.

a blue as pure as the winter sky
makes me think that
to see you cry
would plunge my heart into
a roaring blizzard.

yet I can imagine the light
of the sun
shimmer upon a single
tear.

I could bear the thought of
seeing you weep with joy,
as the first dew of
blissful spring runs down your
snow-pale face.

and in a second you pass me by.
and you are gone like
a snowflake in the wind.

She saw him standing there,
looking at her, austere as a
cliff upon a shoreline,
unmoved by the sea.

Yet she knew that every cliff
eventually crumbles
against the unrelenting waves.

And she was unrelenting.

Petals of mold on your heavy eyelids
remind me of the moment when I died among the kindling...

blood dew flowing with the choleric thorns of your eyelashes
feed the scarlet weeds of final bitter twitches,
and the harsh blades of the cardinal sun
burn my last too-naive sentimental nostalgias...

If my soul was a color, it would be a funeral color.

It would be the color of remembrance, and the color of forgetting.

It would be a color that screams to be avenged, respected and mourned.

It would be a proud color.



A color that remembers a glorious past, mostly imagined and embroidered with more victories than defeats.



It would be a color of joy, yet hidden in silence.

A color that boasts of courage, but asks for submissiveness.

A color that speaks of kindness, but greedily hoards.

A color that's been censored.



The color of my soul would be that lack of color, that void that takes away all other colors,

and shoves them down below, under the writhing belly of the thick-scaled beast.

The color that waits to burst out with deep reds, and gold, and blues.



It would be that color that would not stay dead,

would not stay mourned,

would not roll over,

but hammers against the void and brings forth the kaleidoscope of hope.