Accuse the sky
Of giving no sign of the fear
That savors you
Holding fast to your skin

Accuse the trees
Of whispering every word you cursed
As he took you
Holding fast to your skin

Accuse the sun
Of straying to the moon you missed
Leaving darkness for you
Holding fast to your skin

But for all they are
For all you are
The blame lies on his wicked finger
Holding fast to your skin.

I like to make grand statements in journals
Of things I’m going to make myself do
Make myself say
Especially as a last entry
With dramatic defiance.

The reality is that I’ll never do them.
But once upon a time, we all had a dream.

See it with open hands
Letters two or three
The answer that I need

Eloi, Eloi
Where is Your voice?
Where is Your tongue?

If you’re not the storm
a gloom, a light, then judgment

If you're not the earthquake
a deception black and white

If you're not the flames
consuming all that follows I

Where is the whisper?

Eloi, Eloi

I’m waiting for a whisper

Will it ever come?

Oh, gravest star!
Such a wary little lighthouse
watching in the dark
our miseries and poignant pleas

how bored you must be!

For so sat I, embattled in a café
these grumbling bones in order stowed:
first old lovers, with naked buds
makeshift friends dancing upon their nose
second, young Thomas Toy
his hands tied, his feet cold
a warning melting in his mouth:
"This verse," he told me, "remember the key."
"How so?" I dared ask.
"Remember the stumbling block of sleep.
Remember, and let it keep.

With so much hope, I can near see it:
of friends already fallen
their paths of his design
of a life, or least, a feeling
its colors undefined
of hands unused, though worn
furrowing with waste

If so, I couldn’t blame you
for drowning in the sea
in truth, I would near desire it—
just to light the dark
yes, light the dark
and meet the world beneath.

But jealousy aside
you cannot long to die
in hindsight, even worse—
we’re all a second gamble.

Oh, beloved star
just a laughing little lighthouse
watching in the dark
our miseries and poignant pleas

how happy you must be.

Glasses hiding Bright Eyes
As he tells his tale.

Narrow eyebrows, such skepticism
What magic tricks entail?

Tanned skin, nearly brown
Etched upon pale light
Such hands, Bright Eyes, such hands
Give motion to the night.

Just kiss her, Bright Eyes, kiss her
And wake the dead alive.

I am but a half-closed eye
An almost, yet hardly there.
I am but curled fingers and scattered anger
Only waiting for a dare.

Though hardly innovation
-as some might disagree-
Futile long has been my search
For naught the sun can see.

So I will stretch these arms and scream
Unravel every thread of skin
Twist these toes 'til they cave in
And all falls apart.

Yet even then, that is nothing
Not a feeling will I exhaust.
For the soul has no emotion
To satisfy the lost.

So I will lace these emeralds shut
Spin a web about this heart
And brace these shoulders for the weight
Of never-ending dark.