Standing in the shadows is a lonely clock that's painted red
Made from blood and carved from bone - a clockwork core that's cold like lead.
A convoluted clockmaker sits wizened by its feet
He sits and thinks, nods and knows, the clock will not its maker meet.
He tells himself he's but an ember, tells his clock it will tick on
Wrapped in black like black's in fashion, with no heart save pendulum.
He knows the clock is icy fire, if he, the maker, is its spark
He looks upon his ticking beast and knows his hand has made its mark.
He lets his clock keep ticking, never stopping, won't tell why,
And its maker curls up on the floor; his final breaths are whimsic sighs.
His lonely clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking - ticking, ticking still,
Standing regal in the shadowed room, but bending to its maker's will.

I am not of darkness, but i'm in the dark.
If I am not lost, I am slowly losing it.

As the Babylonians babel on, i wander on,
lost while wondering when the future shall fall.

Shalom, shalom,
and into the night of day we go.
each with flame that flutters and fluctuates amidst the noise of reality,
certain to ignite a side to the worlds duality.

there is a lost freedom in this land,
and if we are but angels
we are but angels at war with God with gods.
and if we are but gods
we are as foolish as they come.

is this darkness on the dawn?
shadow in the night,

find the light

find the light

find the light.

Even I whose soul is as the night can love its loving bright.

“She prides herself on her strength and steel,
but she cracks like porcelain now and then.
She knows how to piece herself back together,
but covers her cracks and chips in layers of glue.
She is composed of fire and compassion,
but she struggles with doubts and insecurities.
She burdens herself with the weight of the world,
but carries forward bravely, determined to make her mark.

She takes the reigns and her presence screams command,
but she hates the burden that comes with being in charge.
She knows leaderships rests deep within her bones,
but she resents her authority and responsibility.

She builds armor out of sharp wit and determination,
but she doesn’t dare smooth out any of her jagged edges.
She understands that she is the hero of her own story,
but recognizes even heroes need saving sometimes.

She burns soft and bright like a star in the night sky,
but she explodes violently like a supernova from time to time.
She scatters herself like stardust across galaxies in the aftermath,
but she is phoenix incarnate, reborn timelessly from her ashes.”

I wish I could find the book titled you,
The haphazard bounded and embroidered
Cover with pages spilling golden rue
And blurred lines under every lovely word…
But I don’t know where to look anymore
Or if my heart wants to ache like it did.
I couldn’t burn the secrets or foreswore
And forget the love seared on my eyelids…
But my thrum is in the eyes of a man,
Laced in every vein, waiting on his lips
Like a drug deal not according to plan
And your relapse stinging like poison whips.
     I’ve held and been held by this book in dreams
     And secret studies full of rouge sunbeams.
     Perhaps this diversion is what I needed;
     Maybe someday I'll learn to stop the bleeding?

my eyes were more blue
but you never did tell me
you liked green seas too

Resting in an icicle hammock
Between the only two trees on a tundra of thick tears
The world remain an uncolored book
Neutral sheets of parchment paper, it usually looks
Yet, visible remains the vermillion that dribbles from my dry nose
The only shade around, which resembles petals of rose
Tissues soak up ruby rain that drips and drips
Streams of scarlet sorrows and crestfallen crimson collect as they cascade in the crevice of lust lips
The warmth of it all still cannot melt the frozen bars of this cell
But I must enjoy the only tint that reveals itself
Even if it's lava tone resembles the terrain of desolate Mars or the sinful flames of hell
Soon these cherry rivers will make way for a new pigment
A hue I will soon be wrapped in
When too much of this spills, and strings of a flowing red licorice yield to simple black
~~~~~~~~~~~
*And in a faint yelp, he knew there was no turning back