I feel as if my soul has been awakened from its long slumber in that dark and desolate evening. I feel as if my eyes have been opened from their sleep of a dull, grey and morbid life that has now been torn from the page and replaced by something new and white. Something white that is an empty canvas, but this canvas will not be grey again. This canvas will shine in that once dark night that will now turn a bright and burning white, blinding actually. This canvas will be filled with paint that tells the story of a new song, a new life and that new breathe of the living me.
This canvas is myself and I will not allow myself to be subdued nor burdened by this dull world who believes in moving, moving, moving, but never actually getting anywhere... I've decided that I will believe in magic again. I will not allow myself to dwell in suffering, for today is a new day and this is a new song that will not allow its rhythm to stop. It will not allow its heart to stop beating. This heart will never stop, this canvas will never be striked by the hand of evil because this canvas will be a bright and burning white, a blinding white.

The air is thin
And the light is dark.
But the warmth of this moment brightens the room
Transcending beauty this is

We sit
And we allow our minds to run over all that sits in our hearts and eats away at our souls

We sit
We drink the steamy cups of coffee
We allow our taste buds to grasp the flavour of the beans
However, as delight touches our taste buds
We converse
We listen
We see
We sit
Us three

Us three
We are souls that have been lost
We have eyes that tell tales
Tales that are not told in words, but hidden in the way that we watch
And note the world

Us three
I see her heart is on her sleeve
Her mighty, unwavering heart will not be stifled
She may not allow such passion to be withheld from the world
For she is made for His Glory.
She is made to drink from the fountain of youth with no fear
She is made to conquer
And stare down at their meek faces
As they watch her
In awe
In wonder
And in adoration

Us three
We prefer not to stifle that part of ourselves
That part that will be set free
That part that is bashing at the cage, begging, pleading
to be let out
To be
let out into the night
To go into enigmatically

I am nostalgic
For my former self
The girl who never allowed herself to focus on the dark, the girl who believed in flying
The girl who now never believes she will be taken out from captivity
From this dark pit
Oblivion,  
I believe I am there

She interrupts me and puts down the cold caffeine


Us three
She says that I cannot make more mistakes in my life than she has
She tells me that God has a plan, and the pain will soon end
She says that my Destiny will soon unravel from the tight coil
She says that His plan is delicately detailed and outlined in solid black
Like a work of art...

However, the dragon tends to blow his fire at the edges of the delicate page
No matter how small the burn, it makes a change
To the plan
What remains,
Is the art

No matter how much he taints it, my dear, it will still be a work of art
Your Destiny will be fulfilled.
Your heart will be set free

I weep.
I shake.
I gasp for air.
And I always believe in the moments of
Us three.

Intense
once were the colors
of faded lines
a dark humor, a love, of
another poets spirit
a
salute
to those faded
lines
that transform me.

the perception
of truth
is not dependent
nor is it failed to
be
logic
without us

is the theorem
not true?
would reality still
exist
amongst our abyss
or are we what
makes it exist?

Can science
or theology prove
the negations
of truth?
or that reality
is?

They asked me what I want for christmas,
I told them I wish for silence,
but that is an impossible desire,
that one cannot acquire.

They looked at me confused,
they couldn't comprehend,
silence is not something
a human can command.

You can silence people,
you can silence the entire world,
but voices in your head will stay,
you will forever be their prey.

The flowers are wilted,
and so is my soul,
what once was pretty,
lingers no more.

A brief, but passionate inhale.
Who would have thought,
of the autumn in her eyes?

A sweet, delicate voice.
A beautiful sound to detect.
And never forget.
And never regret*.

The stud of a nose
Her own clothes and eloquent verbose
An unheard of strength
That she shrugs off like dirt.

And she knows of Dad.
Because she has been there too.
Not just for the smell of *****,
Or for the pain of just one bruise,
But for the depth behind
A clenched fist
and the struggle for eye contact.

It was 6 AM.
In the autumn.
And things just happen.
But see,
it wasn't just a thing.
It couldn't be.
The way I held your hair
And hid it safely behind your ear.
And accepted the kiss
That my fear could not initiate myself.

It was the blue,
And the blonde.
The black of the beanie,
And the spots of the sweater.
It was the look
and the smile
and the inhale.

And then
it was the stars.
And the stone wall.
And the Boston skyline.
It was the teasing.
and the alcohol
and the spot by the river.
And it was autumn in her eyes.

It was heaven in the trembling of my knees,
and in that kick in the shin,
and in the brownie brittle,
and in the passionate kiss in the room upstairs.
It was hell in the uncertainty.

And as the time will pass,
We will attract or repel.
Naturally.
And where this ambiguity chills me to the bone,
I find autumn in her eyes.