White rain like glass on the pavement

A rotting, lonely shed in a place it shouldn't be

A man with a pipe and a sleek obsidian tie.


I'm a ghost in this whitewashed reflection
Of a place I've feared to know
The wind becomes my breath
And the rain has turned to snow.

When the words left my mouth
Like birds from darkened tree holes
Feathers did not flutter with gaiety and relief
Lilting on the winds of new love
Into an expectant morning sunlight
But fell heavily down upon the charred forest floor
Frying in the light, oozing a sickly black tar
That reeked of lies and costume plastic
As if it were the melted remnants
Of the mask I tried to wear
When I choked on the smoke of my past mistakes
And exhaled it into her face.

I am ever burdened by
The undying struggle
Between the ardent, desperate desire
To chain pain’s hand to my own
And let it possess my pen
And my mind’s frail, fearful plea
That I rip myself from its clammy grasp
And remain here safe, and resolve
That it is better to suffer numbly
Than to submit myself
To my deepest self.

Bring into my vision
What others don't see
Take pen in hand
And dance with me.