The pounding in my head
beats the pounding in my chest.
I prefer no beat instead,
as the town with deadless rest
beats the sound of restless dead

Today I feel no longing.
Characterized like a crossroad,
but different,
like being lost in the woods
with all directions abound, not limited.
And no reason to commit to one path.

I’d rather not decide just yet.
I’d rather sit and wait.
For though I know each path has virtues
and they will all exit pines
to open grace and cathartic shine,
the resounding factor of length of time
makes me hesitate.

And as I waste away my life
waiting for one path to materialize
into something I have passion for,
the trees around me become visible.
The forest is alive, and finds meaning in its life
Simply Existing.

And I envy these woods because its life has more meaning than mine ever could.
No matter which path I take.

A gentle vision, that,
The girl who stabbed me with a stiletto-

Half lucid entangle, enforced, but not pleaded,
Such expense at the offer of a lude game conceded.
Tense hours wandering, unlaundered and restless,
to the ripe desert fruit, found snared and defenseless;
felled by the brute who enforced vanity.
The frigid and harmless might stand to agree.

Now rigid in darkness, at the face of your palm-
two islands are bridged.  Awaken embalmed!
Silence, abridged like the unclaimed draw sweat
splattered in the fallout of our budding duet.
A matter, devout; raconteur be concise.
But no pestilent drawrings of a frail soul suffice.

Unhinged as if the veil of heart should drop.
I claim my mind to hold no gentle art.
The gears behind the rusty cage won’t stop.
Endure, my dear.  Should fear appear, depart.

Uncaged, alive, abhorring some denied beat
Alone, endowed without faith to atone.
Those eyes abound, a prayer to be discrete!
So lost along the care to bear my own

What life that lusts for love could be alive?
When but the thought of pain should so impede;
And such is life for bees that leave the hive.
Alas, my friends.  To dogma I concede.

Infernal light consumes the world I know,
Yet dark along the alley streets I go.

The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
Though depths be the bane of the weak,
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.

What holds your reason, should judgment mistake?
Though the alternate prospects are bleak,
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.

Were it be you, could comfort forsake?
No, unaware, your posture bespeaks.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque

The valiant of will won’t welcome the quake
Empowered, the sordid, the broken, the meek,
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake

Ethereal dance, whose lost weavings partake
those apes, who stand tall, boasting technique.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.

Yet pardons, in diligence, to the transparent fake;
On fires dwell qualms of conceit.
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.

The dawn of a journey; the slate, as yet, blank.
A charm of the breeze attached at the flank.
A cathartic virtue posed as an outcast
For your ship and your crew, dead hand of the past.

Once veiled by the mist and engulfed by ice,
The albatross kiss framed your quarters at night.
Sound luck unheard cleared a space on your shelf;
You killed the poor bird and held it yourself

Its merit unlaced and outrage profuse,
Obliged as a vigil, so strung as a noose
To remiss of a sin you couldn’t undo.
Sometimes a captain’s remiss of his crew.

The struggle of hope in alms of despair
Caught in your throat as you finish your prayer.
Once woven together, as roots with the earth,
Now tortured by weather, the fruits of a curse

The mast downed by lightning, the sky’s bitter wrath;
The swirling foundations of an arrogant past.
And though your veins pulsed as the crew flew about,
Your body was choked by the legs that gave out

Who knows if a curse was the cause of your death?
Perhaps all you stole was a free bird’s last breath.
The ocean, denied all its depths, would agree
A mariner in plight is a dead man at sea.