Because in the end I'm still standing
in the corner
like I like
or don't like
I have yet to decide but
I'm laughing with myself;

vanity never got me anything.

So I'll wear exactly what I like or
what you want me to like or
whatever I found on the floor
and I'll collect more and more
until I finally realize what I chore it is

Pretending who you're going to be each day.

Dress me in grey
Stick me in a simple box
Set me on fire and
throw me to the rocks in the sky
that always reflected the dreamy mist of another life
into my vacant eyes.

C.e.M. 12.12.14

I've spent my morning
reading, dreaming
I listened to the rain
oh how the drops, they hit my roof
each one spelling out your name
each letter is it's own
every drop
a little fuller
& in the wet
I catch my breath
I see it pouring as I pull her
if I replace the steam that I now breathe
my gasps won't seem as cruel
that I might look up at the sky
my dear
& all I see is you

then I tried the stage
me an actor, the thespian  
(Shakespearean, Greek tragedian
you know)
"Man and the arms I sing" - like that -
and so the director told me
I'd come on stage left,
a dramatic moment
amidst full sound effects
(and full house, of course)
and I would proclaim:
"O ye Gods, and O ye elements
and O ye thunder - rage on, rage on
for I fear not"

and I so galloped on stage
amidst full sound effects
(and full house, of course)
but I was confused by the sudden
and raging thunder above my head
and I proclaimed instead:
"What the **** was that?"


*And so ended my stage career
as it began
with a bang

Darkness.

He settles on my skin like an absent touch; His hands the hands of a past love tracing my outline and raising my skin.

He whispers to me in dreams. What was once, and what could be, he lingers in the thoughts I can't control.
He breathes silence in the space between us, enclosing every inch of my body in his icy exhalation.
He is the coldest of comforts.

He is fearful, but I do not fear him.

His chasm of understanding and attentiveness is an infinite book of blank pages to be filled. He hears me. He listens.

He Is the giver of time that nobody wants. He provides. When I am at war with my thoughts at 3 AM, he is on my side.
He does not lie, unless it is along side of me. On top of me. All around me. He is consuming.  

He is untrustworthy, but I have given him mine.

He is the quietest of melodies. His song cradles me into sleep, and I feel him beside me as I drift away.
When I awake in the morning he has always left, but is never really gone.
In the brightest of rays, I can still see him.

He controls me like an illness, but only with my consent.

Darkness.
If ever I wanted to leave him, would he let me?
Could I cleanse my soul after his touch?  
If I ignored his approach in the eve,
would he still be kind to me when the daylight faded?


I'm afraid to find out.