things are not what they seem to be.
a blade of grass is a field of ruin,
dust moves in a circle,
and death is a false end.

things are not what they are.
god is existence,
the future is set in stone,
yet even mountains move,
given time.

things are not.
faith is complacence,
an onyx tower, buried,
in the amber depths of the heart...

Take the unseen snow and cover me with it.
Make it into a blanket around me.
I can hide my head there in it's sanctity, and
No one will even know.
And upon finding me cold, lifeless, dry breaths,
Someone less encumbered will utter
a few words that would never encompass me.
And some would cry for their loss but not for mine.
And the darkness would carry me away,
To a simpler place for me.
A place where no thought could break through
The icy encasement I made for myself.

Just the other day, it seems
I was taking a stroll
Betwixt my thoughts and dreams
When I came upon a hole.

Careless and morose,
I wandered too close.

Stumbling!
Oh!
Tumbling!
Woe!

Such a cursed downward trip.
Grasping, clasping, clutching,
The slick sides refused my grip,
And I slipped; lost touch.

Tired and resigned,
My mind went blind.

Descent!
Oh!
Torment!
Woe!

Yet, the world appeared quite clear,
Though my temper was black.
I saw how frightfully drear
wound the future's track.

Frantic, I panicked
At my droll edict.

Penance!
Oh.
Silence...
Woe?

A quaint distraction found me,
And reached out to console.
Insipid pastimes found me,
And filled up the hole.

At last my thoughts, free,
Yet my dreams, empty.

Rescue!
...
Relief!
...
So
...
?

Now I know
I'm my own foe.
Now I know
When he beckons,

Just
say
no.

a glimpse of bliss
through the gap of the
door, slightly ajar
your naked body
stretching in the
early morning light

bending to get your robe,
unaware of my presence,
your lithe form, smooth skin
earth shook
and my knees got weak