The walls are sick of looking at me
as I try to explain
why I love the rain
as twilight wanes.
A hunching shadow's long sigh
waited for darkness
to swallow troubles
hardly worth the pain,
wondering when I last felt
some kind of good
or if I would
again.

Woeful symphony's collide within this after dark melody.
Before this tapestry of auroras that like a spark huddle within
its congregation, like moths around a flame waiting to be but
extinguished.

My wings encompassed this reality of shadows, elegance
wondered the shallow breath of eternity plucking black
orchards and seeding them on these pebbles of cold rock and ice.
So did these embryo silhouettes dance exquisitely in silence.

There is a unseen beauty that only the blind will ever envision
Where we whisper nothings but this song is always heard.
But time is a dull motion where there was nothing to play
upon. A dance of contours only visible to oneself becomes futile

So for the auroras to whisper shadows I bathed this once
beautiful place with eclipse of form. I scattered my feathers
to far flung voyages ,where now quills write on the stars
of my tortures but now my silhouettes dance a new form.

For there cant be light without darkness, heat without cold.
I breathed upon this existence, these pebbles of light in
a sea of oblivion. All pebbles will eventually sink,
till there is but perpetual twilight once again.

Lingering afterimages of you collecting in
jars of my mind. I knew this was momentary
that it wasn't an eternity but a grain falling
beyond my reach, but I try to catch you.

Losing you even though your last breath
still warms upon me, your hair is an
ocean for my fingers to hold but like
water they wash through.

I feel the wondering of you heart,
like butterflies eclipsing they flutter
from you. If I could catch even one,
a prisoner of life,
                   hearing but a singular beat.

But you are lost to me, and that butterfly
motionless lying next to you.
I collected your memory in jars, but I
know I must let this last butterfly fly free.

I'm in a coffin of thoughts,
          entombed within my plot.

I scream in loneliness,
           but the soil of confinement buries me.

A head stone reads my reflections,
           *"Here lies my voice, buried in torment,

All matter is fluid
She believed
As she passed effortlessly
Through the concrete -
Then realizing the passage
Was in imagination only
She felt the warm blood pumping
From her skull onto a
Cold factual sidewalk.



- fr

Ocular cavities were vacant in slumbering,
for when the twilight of death exhales on
nightfall, they exhumed from there cages
of waking moments, eye lashes no longer
bars of there keeping. Now pliable in there
movements, optic nerves were there
renderings. Staring at the dismay of there
awaking, they ventured upon a world a static
silence and they hungered to visualize.

They looked upon each others vision,
heads of ocular circumference gazed as if in
headlights. Leaning so slightly distorted from
the others leaning opposites of others motions.
Inclinations were observed as a scurrying ventured
with there distance and they attained to have this
morsel as a pet. Each mimicking steps as if symbiotic
in motion, this new addition to what was perceived
and many that walk the halls in the censorship of volume.

The night wove upon there longing to visualise that
not seen in the slumber times. Many had gathered upon
there motions upon cold floor boards. But they became
restless in the motion and knew what must become of
those in there care. That which was there reason for
vacating there prison to feast upon others sight.
One after another each insect was now unfulfilled of
pools of view, now vacant tomes of emptiness.

Littering the floor some static others roaming in
abandoned motions, colliding upon another
they vented out. No guilt was seen in this pools
of blue as they watched until the last one became
as the others hollow of life for it had bled tears of
dismay upon the floor. But time is a ***** who peals
of in front of you never regaining what had parted.
Light was echoing its arrival through undisclosed
segments not hindered it shone abundantly.

Without thought, instinct took over as they ascended
upon the bed quilt. Moments were corroding in front of
them as light motioned towards an awakening.  
But they clambered in slight motions to not awaken the
exhaled slumbering's. As each opened the bars, so gently
so not to observe in hollow pockets there undoing.
They inserted themselves once again into this confinement,
knowing that they would have no motion only seeing
what they saw prisoners of reality.

As they awoke eyes feeing dry, drops descended into this
pools to awaken them, and in confusion a insect leg teared
outwards. Curious he motioned with silent expressions.
Unseen to him under the dresser was the killing spree of
the slumbering time. No glasses did they were 20/20 vision
they could see like a hawk. But unbeknown is the fact that
others pay for this precious gift of sight. For one must
consume others pools, your have skeletons deep within
yours. But you'll never know, for what happens at night
are vacant visions that see things differently you know.

If I wanted to scream
     would smother me
with love.

If I wanted to scream
     would you carve my
           worries from me.

If I wanted to speak
     vacant words, would
                    you sew my mouth shut.

If I wanted you to be
     silent.. a pillow of feathers
                  now drowns life slowly out..

If I wanted....
    if I wanted....
       if I read this to you would you run.....

I can hear the lullaby of life,
            serenading
our movements to where
we sway delicately to its
                                inevitable
conclusion, a moment that
is elegance haemorrhaging to
                                                 silence..

*"Life is a masquerade of motions, we dance till they fade,

I listen to that great darkness
watching for burning ships
their bows bearing women
and the black prows are coming
plowing the mist into water
as the wind lifts up the bowsprits
leaving a wake I want to be
left alone with night after night
like a sleeping knife that runs
deep through the belly
between the thighs of dreams.