she might as well be a ghost now.
did she even exist? I don’t know
was it a dream? a terrible vision?
can someone mean so much and
then betray so fully? these questions,
I suppose, are pointless. flittering
doubts that will never finally land.
could I have known it would happen?
did I do something wrong? or could
I have done something to stop it?

what do these wonderings accomplish?
making me fear the sounds in the night.
making me worry over every step taken.
the ghost is no longer here, and maybe
she never was. phantoms, I’ve noticed,
only ever haunt believers. so thinking
back on her and all we were and weren’t
I can’t really say that I have any unanswered
questions, just a deep feeling of shame
and regret at the way things all turned out.
what more really is there to say?

Her eyelids lock like gates upon the home behind her eyes
And in her quiet dream's estate she wanders through the vines
The hands she has contain the marks of every single thorn
That one by one began to grow the moment she was born
And as the blood continues down to cover both her arms
She feels the cruor like a seal obstructing all that harms
Her flesh has been a canvas for the painting brush of time
A work completely visible when she unlocks her eyes

tired like always
and I don’t have much to say
but I thought I should write again
just for the exercise, for memory,
for myself, maybe, or maybe
I’m just feeling my exhaustion
and wanting to let it go
and maybe that’s poetry
maybe

He doesn't sleep and cannot speak
His eyes are shot, his breath is weak
The time surpassed him long ago
And even this he did not know
But there is something in his hand
It's not a ring or talisman
A faithful pulse, his beat of course
It's rather slow and losing force
Yet when he focuses his mind
He sees the things he could not find
Apart from him, away and far
The pinnacle of who we are
A birds eye view is just enough
To give him rest 'til he wakes up