Do not conflate mortality and morality.
You can die a sinner,
Or you can die a saint,
But we all die just the same.

I carry you in my heart;
in my head; in my bones.
I would have carried you to the earth's end,
but now, you are simply mulch.

I gaze into the eternity beyond pupils dilation
Where soul has lost sole control of the spirit
And the darkness that grips twists the mind
Warping memories into incoherent phantoms
Wailing in anguish as I brush them aside

Gazing deeper,
Beyond the pale of of my mortal coil
Searching for an answer that nature neglects
Written not in emerald green starbursts,
Shrouded by grey washed blue skys,
But further, beyond the heavens
Where night stretches beyond Terra Firma
And empty space reigns in perpetual waltz
Aging as my eye progresses towards the birth
When light was given life and purity was pure
Before the infection of the question
That has no answer or cure

Nor did it need,
For there I found looking back as if a mirror
My reflection staring at itself in amazement
For I had solved the theory of everything
By knowing thyself… beyond myself

Numerically perfect,
a flower is polished science indeed,
with petals that whisper the secrets
of the golden ratio's creed.

But a rose curving out
on the lethal thorns is indeed
no math, no logic!

What am I, what's the meaning of me,
I asked the stars by the silent sea,
Am I but dust in an endless flow,
A fleeting breath where no winds blow?

In the mirror, time unraveled thin,
A face I know, yet never begin,
Am I the ripple or am I the stone?
Forever seeking, forever alone

Life’s poetry isn't flowing like before;
Metaphors growing stagnant and leaving stains on the pages, like pressed flowers in my blank diaries.
No longer is my mind a sweet adobe to the psychedelic abstractions, running wild, stumbling off the cliff and dissolving into the mundane reality;
Which burst into sober hues here and there, painting my everyday.
I wake in this everyday, healed and scarred;
I walk in this everyday amidst beings of beautiful mien guising grotesque entrails.
Icy criticisms pierce through these ears, melting on this burning flesh, sipping through every tissue, and embedding in the bones.
Is it not painful enough to own these fatal inner conflicts, mutating into lethal thoughts, fabricated into reality.
A sort of pitiful nothingness is bedewed upon all the pages of life, I turn.
I’m stranded on this blank page;
I’m running out of words, i’m running out of ink;
Just with the somber sanguine streams flowing underneath this ashy skin, with which I intend to fill this void but fail.

Moon marked and touched by sun
my magic is unwritten
but when the sea turns back
it will leave my shape behind.
I seek no favor
untouched by blood
unrelenting as the curse of love
permanent as my errors
or my pride
I do not mix
love with pity
nor hate with scorn
and if you would know me
where the restless oceans pound.

I do not dwell
within my birth nor my divinities
who am ageless and half-grown
and still seeking
my sisters
witches in Dahomey
wear me inside their coiled cloths
as our mother did
mourning.

I have been woman
for a long time
beware my smile
I am treacherous with old magic
and the noon's new fury
with all your wide futures
promised
I am
woman
and not white.

The black unicorn is greedy.
The black unicorn is impatient.
'The black unicorn was mistaken
for a shadow or symbol
and taken
through a cold country
where mist painted mockeries
of my fury.
It is not on her lap where the horn rests
but deep in her moonpit
growing.
The black unicorn is restless
the black unicorn is unrelenting
the black unicorn is not
free.