I did not ask
for my eyes to burn,
to dry up and scratch
as I look at the back
of my eyelids.

I did not miss this
mystery
that sat before
the collapsing curtains,
as pink light poured
through the skin
to my pupil
causing a micro
cosmic dilation,
like a big bang
in my eyeballs
as my hazel
irises rushed away
from the growing
black blank space.

Then when I tried
to pull the lids up
I could hear
the sound of suction
and feel
the bruising ache
of a lifetime of
untreated eyestrain.

How the day hurt.
I have felt worse
but the confusion
came intruding
when I realized
that the clouds
were purple
and those skies
were not ones
my eyes
had ever beheld
before.

Crimson colored
grass like strands
stood tall and
then bent back,
swaying swiftly,
with a harsh clacking
and in their movement
I heard
mother nature laughing.

It was a bitter chuckle,
laced with pain and rage,
followed by the crackle
of lightning becoming
thunder.
White lines split
this strange reality
like cracks
in a broken glass
mirror.

No animals,
no barking dog,
no flying dove,
not even
a single bug.
I’d happily settle
for some human being
but there was no one.

My mouth was dry
and the air was heavy
forcing me
to work harder
than normal to breath.
It was thick with
an acrid saltiness.

I could not find
the right time,
and reason
seemed to
loosen its grip
upon my fatigued mind.

There was a perfume
of rot riding
the air
like a lost surfer,
caught and cracked
then left after that
to feed the fishes
down below.

If I was Alice
I would understand
that this was
the strange land
through the looking glass.

If I was Dorothy
I would make haste
to get home
off this yellow brick road,

but this is not
a fairy tale
that fosters
brighter futures.

This must be hell
or as close as one can get,
and I would like to forget
all of it.

But I cannot seem to recall
anything at all
before I opened my eyes.

As we toss and we turn,
Our conscious adjourns.
Thoughts start to disfigure,
When closed eyelids flicker.
Memories of time gone distort,
Visions of future form and contort.
Within the mind we easily create,
Wondrous love and passionate hate.
We’re free to judge all we have been,
Even the parts that we hide, the deleted scenes.
Too enlighten our deep seeded sorrow,
Or darken our ever awaiting tomorrow.
Spoken in tenses past and present,
It may be nonsense or possibly relevant.
When we spin ourselves tall tales to fantasise,
Time as we know it so easily passes by.
When torturing ourselves with merciless power,  
Every minute feels like an hour.

The synapses are singed,
dead dendrites
no longer
come to life
with the chemical fire
of neurotransmitters.

Blood flow is
restricted
like it has been classified
by the FBI,
not even tiny particulates
can get through it,
all that is left
are clogged arteries
and a delicious
cheeseburger death.

The rich interwoven tapestry
that use to be me,
the strange tributaries
of plasma,
the slick switch board
that birthed
consciousness,
full bodied sensations
intertwined
with my complicated mind
making me
the cosmic being
that I am;

has slipped the restraints,
this thing lost its name
and now is labeled
Mr. Nobody,
the disconnected
butchered body
of broken flesh,
the rotting mess.

Call in the Doctor
causes the nurses all left.
Then from some
dark corner
bereft of breath
a shade stealing figure
mister death
comes to collect the debt
of life.

The cold will always exist
It will always find us
It'll wrap itself around our frame
And squeeze until we're dust
And the agreement we had with fall
Will always break our trust
And like the leaves
We wither away
Lost.

Pretty pink fingers
play the ivories
that speak to me.

They used to move
more than mere thoughts.
Now, they bend me
more generously
to old aching memories.

Soft concerto,
like the fluttering
of ornate
butterfly wings
going up,
up, up,
and away
to the blinding sun.

Till, the glare
of time
takes each chorus;

Till, the piano
loses all its keys,
and all those
lovely reminiscence
are locked
away from me
for eternity.

Goddess of ice and steel,
she laid there
and slumbers still.

No longer needed
to retain
the powerful sword
for the
once and future King.

She snoozes
At the bottom,
mud laden dress
cluttered about
her cold pale legs,
turning to tatters
while she remains
unaged.

Once there was
a shimmering blade
that made her great
while she waited.
Now there is nothing
but wet dreams
of wizards and kings
marking unconscious time’s
passing.

No purpose
is everlasting
though she may be.

They found that lady
a millennium
or more
after the great wars,
settled like sediment
on the lake bottom,
still sleeping
while they were draining it.

I give you A nod, A how do you do.
You nod right back, in the politest way too.
I give you wave, on this particular day,
You copied my wave, in a similar way.
I moved to one side, to let you get by,
Yet you waited for me, without saying why.
I smiled at you, as you moved on behind,
I think maybe we’ve passed, some other time.
I change my path, from this way to that,
Then suddenly I see you, coming right back.
Is this simply A minor coincidence,
One of those that makes no sense.
Then I stop, I see you there,
Fixated on me, with your dark stare.
I dart to my left, you move to your right,
Your following me, I know your type.
I start to move, I pick up my pace,
Thats when we begin to race.
I criss and I cross, to shake you off.
I duck and I dive, to bide more time.
I have to stop for it’s no use,
For me to try too lose you.
You check mate me right throughout,
Without A SHADOW of A doubt.

Sometimes
these colors
overwhelm me.

Like Vincent I see
swirling streaks
of light that weeps,
crying out into
the night’s darker hues
for some sort of relief.

Sometimes the gravel grays
slip away
into a distant haze
as I turn my face
toward the
moist shimmering greens
that shuffle back in forth in the wind.
Their shades shifting slightly
as the sun’s
silver reflection
moves with them.

Red wet apples
with white insides
draw the drool
from my desire
as I devour
all the flavor
and juice
that I can savor.

On rainy days
I can view
the upside reality
of my world
slightly muted
and muddled
by ripples
from raindrops.

Occasionally, I dream
in black and white
but when I
get back to my life
that world is
still new and bright,
as long as I
take the time
to shift the perspectives
that shade my already
tinted tainted mind.

It took the
ancient yellow papyrus
and crumbled it into dust
costing us
the knowledge of
less familiar ages.

It erases
all the old angles
of ancient angels
that were painted
in sainted style
on chapel ceilings.

It saw small framed
dancing beauties
that grew up
and rounded out
shrivel
back in
bringing
sad tidings
of losses
soon to come,

and in the midst
of this movement,
no more tragic
for the transient
nature of all of it,

I let it linger,
just a little longer
as the last sandy bits
slip
from my fingertips;

See it fade
in the distant.
Until, it comes
to take me as well.

Passion or obsession,
Conviction or oppression,
Influence or hindrance,
White lies or spoken wise,
Truth teller or fortune seller,
Construction or disruption,
Digression or expansion,
Education or incarceration,
Conformity or abnormality.

I am playful,
but impatient
and facing
my impatience
is costly,
costing
time and
self-amusement
for general
****** damage.

A fun run
forgets the bits
that stick out.
So, I trip
over the rusted
metal crap that
is bent in
a worming fashion
trying to rise from
the blacktop,

things that were meant to
hold concrete
pieces in place
to face
and stop
cars from moving
too far in
to the building.

This protrusion sends
me tripping,
skin scraping
through thin pants,
bruising and bleeding
the knees I am needing
to keep on moving.

I'm up in an instant
limping like an old man
with stiff arthritic legs.