Words                   are
              birds
    

           In the                  free lines
                      of the
                                                              sky.

Road
so long,
feet are bruised;
my journey carries on.

Lately I've been wondering about my death,
about how I'd like for the music to cease,
the lights to go off,
the colors to fade,
about how I'd like for the world to end.
I'd like for my demise to be poetic
most like everything and anything I do.
Although I know death by one's own hand
is deeply frowned upon, I don't care.
If I should die I'd like to pull the cord
with these very hands that brought misery and joy.
If I should jump,
I'd liked for these feet to walk me to the edge of the ledge.
If I should close my eyes and abandon my dreams to
the void of darkness,
I'd like to be the one who mutters, “Goodnight.”
For this is my life and to think that anyone else
has a say in what I judge wrong from right
is simply and utterly absurd.
Lately, I find myself entranced by the beaconing
of dark lighthouses.
By the tempest in the sea and the clashing of night
as it unfurls like sensuous smoke upon the shores
of my turbulent conscious.
If I should die,
I'd like to go with a spark and a thunder
as I melt into the world of limbo.
One more rebellious act to let anyone who dare object
that this life is mine and mine alone,
and I decide when I should end.

She sheds her tears up on the stage,
with words unspoken among the space.
Her lips are crimson red,
her hands tremble, not in fear but in rage
as regret lingers among the air.
A fiend of hell howls its disdain
near her ear roaring each complain,
as words are clogged behind ruby lips.
If her words be weather well they'd be a tempest,
tearing roots and breaking havoc.
If words be gentle well hers would remedy
the hearts of the forsaken.
But now they rest in their lined casket
for a voice that shall bring them forth
in to the realm of enunciation.

She told me once her heart belonged to me,
and I ever the devoted servant
preserved such trust within
the grasp of my embrace.
She told me many times her love was mine to keep,
and I ever the naive imbecile
took her words as gospel
between the phrases of my prayers.
And know there is no single question
but her words from the past
as she reassures me with a devious smile
the proprietary rights of land to her
pulsing heart.
A surging wave of loathing courses through
the cadence in the back of my mind
when finally I can see within to reason.
A ticking begins to echo.
A heart is a strange thing, I think,
as I cradle the pulsing vessel.
It twitches, trembles and pumps
for the last time in the nest of my palms
and silently the heart that use to beat for me
throbs nevermore.
She was leaving me for another and I
with the prerogative of her permission,
simply took what was mine.
Hands stained with the fading passion of your love,
it shall thud nevermore.

I've allowed you to mark down words,
to map them and write them on a blank canvas;
using caresses and kisses,
fleeting glances and feathery sighs.
I've allowed your colors to blend with mine,
to become a compound from halves to wholes;
using but fragments of our selves.
And yet we've turned each other to blotches of
convoluted ink,
turned to muddled puddles of dark and listless,
gone from Frankenstein to sinister Monsters.
Stitched up with cavalier precision and
become conjoined and grotesque figurines on
freak shows.
We've become but mutated aberrations on the face
of what is beautiful and real.
With a sincerity of gnashing teeth and vicious claws
to lies which manufacture passion and drying tears.
Oh, tell me, Love, where have we gone wrong?
From murmured lullabies of tender, doting songs
to cacophonous symphonies of vociferous disagreements.
When venom hath corroded the flower of devotion
and buried black the wilted products of affection.
Tell me, oh Love, where have we gone wrong?

Farewell to the pollen in the flowers;
for a taste of honey
by the price of stinging wonders.
Farewell to all the starry feys;
for a lack of colors
by our obscure sorrows.
Farewell to crimson sunsents;
for the cracks of dawn
by the longing of a yawn.
Farewell to my lover's arms;
for the desecretion of our Time
by the ignorance of mine.
And, as a final note of departure-
farewell doubtful companion;
by scars of winters past
for bliss of evenings in summer times.