Heaving into the airless room of your heart
willingly, I sat on the bone-cold floor

subsisting on chaotic peeling inches of light
in the dimly lit corners of your diaphragm;

but I have grown old inside the succubus
stomach of these walls, and I am drowning

listening to you speak of your emptiness
as you bathe all around me
in the holy waters of narcissism
the cathedral of your sorrow eats

itself; I tethered a promise into the middle
of you, and I could yet spit at salvation



the lock on the door;
I could spit at salvation
but I have tethered a promise
deep as this imprisonment
masked as a woman.











into the middle of you

is where I am most alone.






my father is dying; of the many times
I chose to stay, this is not one

you have abandoned me within you for
the last time; I forgive

but you are not the god

Consumed and spit out many times
through the unlocked door of salvation,

the cathedral of your sorrow eats
what of myself I have cloistered there

not so I could be a sacrifice on your altar;
you are not the god of my promise to fill you

but my father is dying, and you are a prison
and heartbreak can funnel no love.





but a prison has become you.









I appreciated the slowly peeling inches
of dim light in your many hard corners,

growing old in the succubus of these walls,
drowning on the inside
listening to you speak of emptiness.







as you speak of empty




and I appreciated the peeling walls,
respecting
the dim light in the many hard corners;

but I have been growing old in this bitter love
where you say, and I listen of your empty

where I am prostrate, drowning in walls
so as to lessen the sting of your sequester

but I could fall through this door
you have opened; I could sink
without a struggle to our grave

where the cathedral of your emptiness
would truly become a skeleton

see, the sinew of it is not in self religion
but that love is the heartbeat.








too.












where I will no longer be stifled
in the asphyxiation of your self religion

breaks my hoard











but the anti-gift lies in my cloister,
and the world moves as I am misappreciated



and I listened to you tell me how empty
you are, and how you invite, but how
no-one comes

and I bathe in the bitterness, as well as
the love, because this is something which I
have promised

but I am drowning in a room,
a room that talks to me of walls
and of ceilings, and of floors

and of itself; but never of what is given
by not walking through the unlocked door

into a place where the cathedral
of your emptiness
may preach, aware, that the sinew
of love
is the soft aorta if you are the skeleton.










but the cathedral of you I will worship
even as I sever the love

The broken man can not feel,
no, the broken man can not heal.
The broken man creates a child,
and leaves it defenseless in the wild.

The broken man does not care,
no, the broken man is never there.
The broken man is built to roam,
after he destroys your home.
He'll put your life upon a shelf,
yes, the broken man only loves himself.
The broken man has no voice,
ignoring common sense with every choice.

It's his world, it's his life,
you've been hurled, for his wife.
It's his plan, it's his goals,
the broken man leaves broken souls.

The broken man just lives for fun,
he believes he is the only one.
The broken man is always dazed,
and believes his family is not phased.
The broken man cares much for wealth,
but still he only loves himself.
The broken man is my father,
and I don't wish to be a broken daughter.

It's his world, it's his life,
he’s got pearl, I’ve got strife.
It's his clan, filled by holes,
the broken man leaves broken souls.

The broken man does not feel,
no, the broken man will always steal.
The broken man creates a child,
and the broken man has never smiled.
The broken man cares not for health,
but he'll always only love himself.
The broken man is my father,
because of the mother I miss; he forgot her.

It's his world, it's his life,
you've been hurled, for his wife.
It's his plan, it's his goals,
the broken man leaves broken souls.

on this rumbling
              stretch of tundra
                  no trees reach up
                     to soothe the sky
                     there is a pulling down
                  of wind tunnel vortex
               like conifers in reverse
          an icy howl
in the bonechill
               of time
Translucent holes,
         perfectly round, are dug
                in glacial archeology
                  and in the sea below
               gelid creatures lurk,
           half-frozen
         in the history of my
                                        soul
Only moss and lichens
grow on the rock,
somehow softening the
rugged textures
of the wild landscapes
that seethe
          just beneath my skin
and there, just
shy of the surface
is a quickening
a subtle pulse of veins
that pumps life
between the gales of
my heart's steppes
flushing out
           the pain
somewhere
deep
      within the private lotus
of my being
folioles unfurl
leafy shapes around
my organs
wrapping them like gifts
          as they undulate in whorls
opening my petals
in renewed consciousness
and deliberation
as a new kind of  
           stamen
                rises
    dusty pollen
powdery
budding ripeness
       bursting up
       and out
   of my deepest
       centered
whirlpool pistil
nectar dripping
in viscous webs,
to be caught upon
the tongue of
a new dawning
My silky outer
wings of vegetation,
slender stalks of
          filaments and anther
have been turned
into hot steel
They protect
    the tender vulnerable
                   when burned
as poison words held up to my
watchful eyes,
                   are properly discerned
I give myself over
to this new power,
my back arched to fully embrace
what is to come,
a universe calling thunder,
the old patterns undone
I am ready
to reveal my all
as the goddess deep within
comes to release my gold
suffusing light through skin
conjured from me
a relentless strength,
ever-growing,
                now tenfold
rising way past
soft-lit stratospheres
and orbiting
               to
                 bold

Before you know, you're in your thirties,
Recalling all the days that'd come and gone,
Immixed with nostalgia memories,
Tedious friendships that lasted,
Temporary ones that passed,
Although it's difficult to differentiate,
None I've had with real substance,
Yet here you are, always there...
Picking me up from my self desolation,
Reassuring that I have some value,
Insisting there's worth,
Commiserating my woes,
Everything that defines a friend.

Nothing more than chemical reactions and genetic dispositions I have come to care little for. The effort, investment, and sacrifices made in this age of man merely hinder the prosperity of the individual, let alone the other emotions mankind succeeds, like greed and gluttony. It will soon become our demise as a species once we burn thru every resource we pass by, as we seem to do with eachother in the name of love.