Your reflection
borrows your life
has none of its own.

This innocent glass,
so easily shattered-
for looking alone!

A mirror alone
is still and empty
has no purpose.

Emptiness feels
the same as anguish,
fill the void.

Tears fill
a blank page best;
my spring rain.

Airplanes like comets
drawing cloud-lines in the sky,
rips in reality beyond which other worlds lie.
Worlds bathed in fire, because orange shines through.
If reality really ripped, what would we do?
My mind begins to spiral, up but so low
till all that's left is the nothingness I know,
and suddenly you stand at the edge of the end,
a universe of silence  in which we pretend
to have a purpose, that there is truth, that we are real.
But when you perceive there's nothing, there's nothing to feel.
An accidental planet trying to fill the space
but in this universe of silence, we simply have no place
when I release my fantasies, I lose it all
the ground falls away, and equally I fall.
So I grasp at small things...
like man-made comets with metal wings
ripping reality, passing by
painting purpose on an empty sky.

Melody recalls
films of memory in me
the past is now dreams.

A window open
city in the night breathing
awake as I sleep.

In liquid living
reach for sold illusions
water anyway

You'd think you'd hear them better,
the echoes in the pages.
The films from pictures reeling,
like birds from faded cages.
They record it wrong,
Somehow,
the sound and feeling gone,
Nothing now.
So rational the reasons,
the logic and the  thought.
No pity for those suffering,
no malice for those who wrought
the horror in those pages
(now lost it's razor edge,
because it's just a faded ghost
from murky water dredged
As old as those who pledged
Never again)

We repeat ourselves,
make the same mistakes
see it in hindsight
even as the next bone breaks.
We distort it, it's unreal
just to hide the skeletons
so that we cannot feel.
If all were as it really is,
would we still teach History
to clueless kids?

Blank pages are instruments gathering dust in cellars of a palace once made of music.
Laughter fell in saturated droplets dripping like tears down still glass windows as the present blended in to memory.
And the laughter and the tears fed the river whose rapids once flooded the landscape of my mind.
Creatures of imagination, products of paper are crumbling. All the dragons turned to dust.
Does inspiration come at will? Or do you will it, thus it comes?
No, it comes like falling snow, gentle petals of crystalline individuality or
In torrents of the ephemeral rage of ages.

We had no snow this year, cold air pregnant with promise.We lived instead on the verge of expectation
with winter not yet born before it died.
Confused creatures braved the cold air
anticipating spring aeons too soon.
But the flowers didn't know and bloomed in sunny colours weighed down low with frost.
They hang their heads and crumble. Crumple. were they paper anyway?

The summer sky can be just as empty.
The land breathing calm under the sun's cautious care.
Its life juxtaposed to an empty mind, the ocean lying still in stagnant, airless dark.
I don't retreat to fantasy when the vibrance lies around me.
But still the music is gone.

And the hallways stand silent in the rain, their ends frayed and faded, their destinations gone.
And hesitant sounds plucked in the emptiness coax out jarring twangs.
The sound is wrong.
Yet the song itches at the back of my mind with infuriating patience
consistence
And so I play away,, the screeches of lifeless instruments echoing,
till my mind is naught but steel wool tangles
snarled
and rough
and angry.

and lurking in the darkness lie the lies that once were truth the memories I fled from, taste of rotting youth. I am looking for a lifeline, for a road to lead me home, because the current is still flowing, though th water looks so still, and the fear inside is growing filling all it finds until...

This page, it still feels empty.
And this poem has no end, because the destination's broken.
Broken pieces fit together, but they cannot make a whole,
so the rain falls on and dust falls slow ,
and I'm standing in the cellar with my pages in a row,
my pen is dripping laughter, but it's falling to the floor,

The ghost of me is leaving
and I can write no more.