She glides along the waxy floor,
Mind at peace and heart at war.
The witching hour sounds nearby,
With impaired grace, her body sighs.

In the quiet, she spinslike the sun,
Of violent energy and a star so bright.
Shrouded in darkness she quivers,
As a glow meets her riveting eyes.

A lone little flame-abusing the wax,
Trickles down onto the mahogany,
Tears on her cheek mirrors the sight.
Hours and minutes last an eternity.

She keeps swaying on calloused tips,
Tresses like a ravens broken wing,
Drowns her saddened breathing.
Her mind still denies and she keeps on dancing.

It was spring
—there was a boy,
And with him was his father.
They sat along in rooms
That smelled of kerosene
And buzzed with machineries,
Their hands smudged black
With grime and plaster.

It was spring
—and his head was a golden halo.
How he was created,
I suppose we’ll never know.
So often the boy would ask,
“Father, father, what am I?”

(For if the father was trapped in his cage
With only a forge as his company,
Then what else could this little boy be?)

It was spring
—and the boy grew tall and proud.
Hair like fire and eyes like quicksand,
“My son, you will reach heights no man
Has ever reached before.”

It was spring
—and the father’s smile grew tired and weary
“I will not be caged,” and yet he was, he was.
Thus he took feathers from god-knows-where
And built wings from wax and cinders.

It was spring
—and my son, do not fly too close to the sun;
See there?
That is freedom—just do not fly too close to the sun.
And the boy nodded,
Little long nosed liar that he is.

It was spring,
—they say, when Icarus fell.
And here was freedom:
Wind sharp like glass
And the sun too warm,
The world minimal between his fingertips.
He burned bright, burned fast, died quickly.

(And they say the waves were gentle,
As clockwork spilled.)

I hear your lyre cries
I hear your grief and sorrow
I hear your love for me.

You refuse to listen as they tell you
That I am too far beneath the surface
Trapped in the clutches of death's flames.

My beautiful minstrel, no longer incandescent
Do you think Apollo would be proud of what you've come to?
You roam around with your lyre of gold,
Yet you have killed your flame for love lost.

I miss the way you enchanted all of Greece with your melodies
You now make the gods and goddesses weep in pity;
You make the flowers wilt and die of sadness,
You make even the sirens wail of broken heartedness as
they drive away the sailors who were once enchanted by them.

Do you see the beautiful might of the songs you sing?

O Orpheus, listen to me when I tell you to stop searching for me:
Do not enter the caves and traverse the darkness once more
A darkness you are not meant to be in,
Darkness you are too precious for.

I hear your lyre cries
I hear your grief and sorrow
I hear your love for me
And I am sorry I could not come back with you...

But listen now, my love
Although you long for me still
I am now the only thing in your world
That your music cannot bring back to life.

You are the dream of my sleepless nights.
Insanity beckons me forth into its arms.
Silent and motionless
Eyes wide and painful
Staring longingly into the abyss.
Searching endlessly for rest…just a moments rest.
I found no comfort in my bed last night.
No peaceful rejuvenation in slumber.
Only maddening laughter echoing in my mind.
…Just a moments rest.
Focus on the pain.
Let the laughter overtake you.
Release your grip on reality
Slip silently into the tortured realms of the insomniac.
Sweetest of dreams to you, my friend.
Pray you never wake up

As the relentless shifting of time begins it's quickening,
my spirit grows increasingly nostalgic and ceaselessly restless.
The familiar and familial bonds forged long ago begin to grow taut
and full of palpable tension between all that has been,
and all that will be.
My mind is pierced by a dagger of remembrance.
The shadow box memories begin to liquefy and flow
sweeping along in it's wake both the sweetest and most bitter
until I am saturated by the past.
Facing what will be once more, I cling as ever to all that has been.
Moments and memories once fluid begin to converge and solidify.
forming the critical cornerstones upon which all that will be finds
it's firmest footing.
Strength, renewed it becomes easier to cast off the tension and turn a bright, sharp eye towards all that will be with the security of knowing that it would never come to pass without all that has been.

Seems like
This heartbreak of mine
An incurable chronic disorder

I hear the drops of rain crash against the roof of my home and poetry started to run among my veins. Each raindrop that hits the streets outside my house is yearning for me to write about you. And I’ve told myself that I will never write a single sentence about the boy who left wet kisses around my collarbones then burned my skin with his saliva that contaminates white lies. I promised myself that I will never write one more word about the boy who I’ve spent time teaching endearing phrases from foreign words in hopes that he will say those phrases in thought of me but I stood around the corner as I listen to you say those phrases to someone else.

Now, look at me. Writing about you again. The booming of the raindrops on my roof empowers my hand to move and write your name in this paper. The petrichor intoxicating my brain as I lose control of myself. And here I am realizing that fact that I was born to write about people who never gave a single **** about me.