Walking the tight wire, 
the fine line between what is 
and what never was.

A voice may open doors to corridors,
dusty and untraveled creaking floors
which lead to vast and unlit recessed rooms,
shut down tight, their vacancy assumed.
Should you have the curiosity
to follow, know you this: the voice will be
your unrelenting guide, compelling you
through portals from until now you withdrew.
The voice will still the recoil of your mind
and weave within your thoughts and intertwine
into a past and present tapestry
of dreams and fears spun with realities.
Colored with your rapture, tears you spill;
the cloth is yours, do with it what you will.

Beautiful, brutal,
"...our business is rejoicing...";
strings being tortured,
trumpets scream in agony,
tympani broken at end.

teasing sweat
from every pore
of your body
you writhe against
invisible bonds
your limbs held
by my voice
and sensation alone
I will torture you
gently with sweetness
till you vibrate
and ring out
like a struck gong

Chemo killed cancer
and my immune system too;
slowly rebuilding.

Staying awake tonight, I will render myself suffering
Poet with a house full of only myself
And my thoughts.

There's food and drink, but all I care for is keeping the
Fire going as I sit. And look. At nothing. Everything.
With my thoughts

Silent, for once. As if all shields up and all angels sword
Drawn circling me, like a wall of Soulhome.
Soulrest. My thoughts

Go out to the part of myself that will never find
His way. The Last Living Astronaut, the last shard of Earth,
The last thing the dying solar system thought before

The Nova turned Super and all eyes blind.
I am alone; an unfolded antenna to capture every frequency's
Every whisper that was ever thought into these ancient walls,

And I project the process onto my device, in blind belief that
I can play the Tetris of Words around the moment I am in;
Where I am God. Quiet. Thinking. *Telling.

I carry the ghost of "what was"
along with the spectre "to be",
still chained to the rock of "I am";
the birds of time swoop down on me.

Wandering past poems
of those who have gone on, may
they have found their peace.