I don’t even recognize myself.
At some point I stepped into a fog and forgot who I was before,
while acquiring a new likability and endearment.
Time stops
I reflect on my former self and she is a million miles away.
Yesterday is a million miles away.
The sun is ninety-one million miles away.
I descended into the stars and landed ninety-one millions miles from earth,
to touch the fiery surface.

My skin melts from my bones into an olive puddle.
Gathering the molten remains into my pocket,
I am thrown into obsidian.
Tumbling and falling, gasping for air,
while remnants of my light trickles into the night sky.
Entering the Milky Way and crying for solace,
my ascension to earth comes to an end.
Landing so heavily,
as the weight of my sorrows burrows within,
I think back to the particles within my clothes.

Slowly and solemnly the remains are picked from my pocket.
Changed
and unrecognizable,
I stretch them over my charred bones, until finally,
I am masked from their eyes.
My eyes have darkened and my soul has weakened.
The weak and weary screams from my lungs
detonate the irrational beating of my heart.
The heart that once beat for life,
like a clock ticking towards excitement now ticks as a timer,
pending my inevitable end.

In the end,
Edward Bloom became what he always was,
and that was a very big fish.
Will I die with the fish?
Will my soul be trapped in this echo in time I’m forced to repeat every day,
where I’m drowning and drowning;
my lungs have tightened,
as exhaustion overwhelms me.
I’ve exhausted my options.
There is nothing left but the act of living.

My body has lived but my soul has died.
The goodbyes were said long ago.
Remembering what life was before I died is unimaginable.
Was there a life before this?
Were my eyes ever brighter to the average man?
Was the hole in my chest ever filled with content?
To speak of this would assure my final farewell.
The farewell of my body as well.
The memory of my existence as well.

You                                                              ­                                       have
 
  always                                                ­                                          been 
 
    a butterfly;                                                       ­              waiting for
        your day to                                                       break from that
          cocoon. At least                                       cocoons are warm
              and cozy, they                 say.         Cozy, until someone
                walks by, piercing holes,      creating a draft. Though
                    it’s easier to breathe and much clearer to see.
            May it be better to pierce        holes in the cocoon than
           in those completed wings?        Creating more flexibility,
               it is much easier to                     expand, though it
                  raises the risk                          of being shattered                    
                   before those                                 wings have
                         fully                                          matured.

Waiting Still for Tomorrow

Deafening tone,
Makes me not alone,
Continually singing a sorrow.
Bring not today,
For I beg keep away,
That lament until Tomorrow.

It whispers so loud,
“You are lost in the crowd,
Lost in a sea of harrow.”
It’s censure grew — strewth!
Mocking my sad truth,
Threatening what follows Tomorrow.

I attempt to evade —
Stopped by a palisade,
Yes, stopped by a wall of yarrow.
Plucking mere few,
Intent to make new,
My wounds and be healed by Tomorrow.

“Sweet yarrow await,
I shall be kept late,
By that tormentor who inflicts sorrow,”
But yarrow soon will fade,
Leave my mind in the shade, and
My heart waiting still for Tomorrow.

Stepping into another realm
where pain and sadness and happiness gladness
and regret bear no acceptance,
and are left at the door as I left at the door
my sanity, my humanity, my will to breathe.
Floating among shadows of past and of lives so far away.
Lives so forgotten and memories of childhood bliss
and content now become
droplets of terror
which form holes in time,
gaps in my life as the presence
which once existed in those gaps no longer exists in my world.
Walking among these shadows
and seeing the blankness in their eyes,
their hollowed shells rise and walk alongside me,
beckoning me.
Frivolous eyes of null draw the life from within me.
Life and organs and blood pumping
throughout a numbed body
as my organs transform before escaping.
Heart frosting over,
icicles forming,
further numbing my already numbed existence.
Veins like blackened highways of broken stone
crackle becoming dust
before seeping through my pores,
forever leaving my body.
The rest of me exits anyway it can
until I become a shell,
walking among shells,
casting shadows among shadows
and becoming a shade among shades.

Sorrow was strolling
a chill-bitten road
humming a tune,
as he passed an abode

that was lit by a furnace;
shadows danced in the glow
that the furnace cast
upon the frosted window.

Sorrow stopped for a time
to glance at the light,
then began reminiscing
to a long-ago night:

delicate child
prancing lightly around
a rain-beaten cove,
not a tear to be found.

This child bearing joy
kicks puddles in cheer,
then sees a colorful frog
on a log that is near.

He sits by this frog
with intent in his stare,
then the frog speaks clearly
"Boy, you better beware."

Confused by the voice
that sent ripples along
the puddle he sat in,
like a prophetical song.

With a tilt to his head
the boy then replied,
"What an odd thing to say,
dear frog who is pied."

The frog was quick
to retort less than coy,
"Oh, you should understand
what is coming, dear boy:

a shadow will fall
from the blue sky above,
engulfing your sight
until it darkens your love.

It will then cast a shade
which will follow your life
through the rest of your days,
bearing continual strife."

The boy quivered his lip
and sat back with despair,
as he saw the sky gray
and felt the thickening air.

His days of laughter
and innocent play,
have been cruelly stolen
on his last childhood-day.

Suddenly the boy glanced
locking eyes with the man,
who still stood in the frost,
who was glancing again

at the house which shown shadows
of delight once before,
now sits darkened and frowning
with a dilapidated door.

Sorrow now covered
in crystalized thought,
brushes icicles away
of intricate wrought.

He returns to his travel
on that chill-bitten road,
humming a tune saying,
"Goodbye, sweet abode."

Deliberate drops of dwindling black streams
seep between barriers into my dreams,
and maliciously mocks my frightened soul.
My mind, it happens to hollow beyond my control.
The chill-biting breath forms patterns of lace,
intertwining my mind with deceptive grace.
How beautifully this new terror becomes me!
This wave of sadness and I seem to agree.
Obsidian frost covered sinister thought,
with insidious ice of intricate wrought.
My thoughts are repressed by shadows that so silently swarm,
while crystals of darkness begin to form.
And so, while I laugh at my darkened state,
and dip into treacherous valleys of woe,
I carve a downward smile yet almost too late;
into that bright face from long, long ago.

Merely existing but surely
out of place,
neither captive nor
adventure will
calmly erase
hidden shadows which lurk
beneath eyes, in my mind,
playing disarrayed
songs,
in much
sadness I'll find.

as the disgruntled, sleep deprived EMT announced her condition.
Arriving on scene, they tended to her,
then loaded her with care.
I sit in my warm, tucked away office as i feel
a slight prickling on my arms.
The chilled air which fills the night wafts into the ER,
as they wheel in her body.
Flashes of red - lashes of red as her son
releases tears onto her bed.
Placid, up-turned face masked with displaced comfort,
despite the plastic rod protruding from her mouth.
Her husband leans in and
so gently he kissed her, so gravely he missed her.
“Call it. 4:40.”
Her arms tucked away beneath her,
as she has fallen asleep for the last time.
Covered by blankets, preserving her last, final warmth.
She will soon turn cold.
The light has left her eyes, in the distance are cries.
Her monitor displays her state,
while her family gathers around, chilling the night with -
static tones and stoic moans.

People always believed
I was strong,
and though I loved to play along,
the truth was,
I have never been strong;
merely a brilliant actress,
for as soon as the curtains close,
and the audience leaves the auditorium,

I break.

Another night awaits
for my limbs to dangle
from that swiveled chair
as mirages pace the halls.

Mirages?

Keeping my office at the brink of 84 degrees
to ensure my brisk, chilled heart
warms for the night.
Icicles form, coaxing my veins of merlot
into the most ultramarine,

before blackening to obsidian.

An obsidian frost
travels my body like highways
and interstates transporting
the most precious cargo from state to state
ensuring this country stays in good health.

My body is a country?

Veins like blackened highways of broken stone
and eyes like stars darkening to night.
Hair that sways in the sultry wind
while auburn tips lick the curve of my back,
like trees dancing in the night

tickling the grass.

Blink a few times,
I'm still in my swiveled chair,
swiveling and swaying,
forever in my swiveled chair
as the walls hum a silent, coaxing lullaby.
Where are the people within the walls?
I have forgotten,

there are no people within the walls.

Beguiling, pink petals
dance about my ears,
capturing my cares —
oh, my worries, and fears.
Pocketing my darkness,
in these petals — so assuring —
yes, pocketing my darkness,
in these petals so alluring.

Caging so tightly
to keep peril at bay,
but these petals seep open
letting melancholy stray.
And these petals of blush
soon wilt into gray;
obsolescent ashen
petals drift far away.

Malevolence now freed,
scatters lightly about
its malicious intent,
inflicting sorrow and doubt.
I’m wary to proceed
with this life of late,
brimmed with sadness and fear;
swallowed withal by hate.

But concealed in the shade —
what was once feared before —
soon beguiles my mind
into pleading for more.
Now calling out for
this sinister of slight,
to hasten its darkening
into an obsidian night.