07, June 2015.
But moving on, changing places or taking a plane
and leave this bruised home seems impossible for me,
still trapped in this four cold, foggy, silent walls.
The energy of what could have been and the lost hope
is still audible from the distance.
Here, at the edge of this bridge,
where the lonely road disappears in the early morning winds.
This whole town is still burning from the lost battles and fought wars,
with dead ashes from a broken heart.

He was the darkest of dark nights.
He was the view through a hospital room's window, right through the long wild waving grass. He was the feeling of freedom I could never reach.
He would appear when I needed it the most, as unexpectedly as the breeze hits a field at summer nights.
He was the sound of the saddest piano notes at the end of a heartbreaking song.
He was always there, he was always watching.
He would look back at me with his green eyes wide open and his mouth shut. He knew all the answers, but he wouldn't say a word. Words were never needed.
Walking heartbroken down the dark streets last night, I looked up from the ground, where the town disappeared, fading into the wild lands, covered by the midnight skies, slightly touched by the moonlight. I felt him.
Looking right into my ripped soul and deepest broken hopes, with the same old expression across his face. He faded in the winter winds.

She was ethereal.
She would walk her way back home under the moonlight in the freezing winter nights. She was made out of pain and nostalgia. Not even sweet death could compare to her pale face, always covered by her tangled dark hair. She used to lie in bed wishing to be somewhere as cold as she felt, dreaming of wreck and defeasence of everything she had ever known. If she wasn't reading stories, she would make them up in her damaged head. If the story wasn't enough, she would let her demons eat the last nerves that somehow had made it through.
She felt alone yet constantly watched over. She was hoping for someone to stay around. She was hoping to be someone else's muse. She wanted them to ache, burn inside, scream at the top of their lungs just like she did. She wanted to be the reason. But deep inside she knew nobody would turn back to her.
She thought she was out of place, out of this world, made of outer space. But she was not. She was just a girl. She bled, needed and loved. She thought her tragically beautiful soul was a waste.
She's been missing for years now.
Sometimes, when everything comes down all at once and the weight of the world gets too hard to hold up, I still can feel her, after all this time. Sometimes I think I can see her wandering, floating around like the daydream she was.
The thought of her leaving forever stabs my chest every night.
And I can't sleep.
Just like she did before.
She's my muse but she never knew.

The other day
I happened to see a friend
who had passed away.
It was not until I saw him
had I realized,
I no longer cared for him.
I had been busy living
and after all these years
he was still the same.
How does one explain
to a dead friend
that people change?

I told her there was very little of me left to love,
and with glassy blue-green eyes she replied
*There is enough

I know darling, I gave you an ocean of words
when all you needed were a few drops of rain.

I wrestled with the black sea
that brood inside of her,
but nothing I possessed
could stop that dark tide
from taking her.

Late at night sadness covers up my skin, ivy
on the old bricks of an abandoned mental hospital,
broken windows, we stopped needing help years ago,
and this place is just as scary empty as it was full
expect when the doors were open the crazies
would come and go, I swear it made the stay
a little more tolerable

The Atlantic Ocean and I sigh
in unison against the shoreline
of Amagansett Beach
and as she inhales;
she drags the land above below,
one grain of sand at a time.

In a few generations
she will have devoured this entire beach,
eventually the whole Island
and with it the multi-million dollar estates
which decorate its topology
like an effigy to human vanity.

I would say never before in history
has there been so few with so much
who have done so little
but that would denote
some kind of significance
and they are hardly worth noting.

the tessellated tile floor of my existence,
once alabaster white
has sullied under the steps
of a muddied life
spent wading in the river bank
attempting to coalesce
a series of seemingly random events
into a fabricated web
spun of the finest thread.
only to find the ephemeral now
a fractious flowing river
so violent and cold
from the melting spring snow,
whitewater breaks
against primordial stone
like titan thunder atop olympus,
rattling our bones
because legends follow entropy
but chronos begets chaos in mythology.