The fiery depths in the ocean of the star above us
burns brightly against a full moon backdrop
looked at by those who were never there...

Aware to care.

A chemistry incomplete.

Eye’s that almost don’t meet,
but comfort in between sheets
burnt at the feet
and imperfect perpendicular
black lines in a photograph
that doesn't quite cross in view...

It’s not what I’m accustomed to…

We are all in pictures that will be forgotten…

At least I can say the same
for the table of the rotten.

Flipping pages…

Complete.

So many memories
left glossy envelopes alone,
forever unknown,
and old
grey scaled
sunny days
on the beach.

A life of smiling retreats
and no one knows a soul,
especially the one whose view
we knew.

And all those looking into the eye
have all died.

No more tears are cried
and I can smile as I flip on past,
knowing where I, one day to,
will be at last.

So Long Ago
A Train  Left
With Me
On it
The rest
Is Just Filling Time
Finishing Nothingness
Soon To Leave
Forever

Under that pretty flawless skin,
Is a bruised layer aching in pain.
And under those heart-melting eyes,
Are the eyes of a lost puppy lying in the rain.

Under that bright and radiant step,
Is something deteriorating into less than a smile,
Under that happy and cheerful handshake,
Is someone who just refused to do that for a while.

It is not very well known that,
Every skinning of the teeth is not a laugh,
You never know; for you may be surprised,
That you may discover someone going down a completely different path.

My coat is black
like the nights
I have long forgotten.

I left heaven
for the taverns.

I did my readings before daybreak
when the moon was far aloft,
but the nights got longer.

I kept putting things off
hoping I would discover a star
I knew was there.

Now I saw logs
and leave the leaves
where they fall.

She is looking out the window

again. Wishing for there to be

no window. That she could feel the

tumbles of pittering rain droplets as they

run with the wind. On her face. She

thinks on how her autumn-harvest

hair would plaster against her pinked-out

cheeks and jaw and lips. She

watches, seemingly unable to forget her

evening plans. It's down to her mother's

black silk or the leopard-skin

gloves, but both are ripped and she

doesn't know how to sew. She

isn't tired. She's exhilarated. Ready to

feel the rain and wind and trees sail

across her face and down her neck. She

sits and watches through glass panes as skies

whip clouds like batter.