your eyes refract infinity
more times than the sky can count
yet there was never any room in there
for me

i'm sorry—
i'm not your youth
or the smiles that i shared with you
so long ago

i'm just another minute
on your weeping clock
shriveling up,
winding
down

this.
this word.
mutter it softly, as the fireplace moans.
bring your bones to the pyre,
bring your dragons,
bring your friends.
come to this pyre and we shall burn
the past into the present.

do you hear the thin noise of action?
the things that you will do,
the things that you have done,
all rushing into that heart of yours,
that heart of ours,
that fiercely fragile thing?
yes. you do.
and you shall break the mountains with every whisper.
let your words proliferate across this crumbling world (spinning itself to dust),
a legion of ants on this blue sphere.

do, and your flesh will unravel into dawn.
do, and the vices writhing in all our skulls will have no choice but to yield.
do, and we shall leave all these broken lamps behind,
let them drift away on this slate-blue sea,

do,
and we shall burn the past
into the future.

the words wrapped in the shadows teach me how to bleed. in the hollow spaces of night, all is you. all is a search for you.
souls lay atop each other on reality's dark fabric.
your sight on top of mine. we are all 7 billion golden sights, blinking in on a pebble.

we're everything to each other. yet nothing. we search for ourselves. because we are ourselves.
we try to be other people. but the boxes are too tight.

(the last of the rain hangs from leaves, waiting lucidly for the final moments. in between cloud and ground, they wait. giants to an insect.)

silent butcher of my own words.
i am here, a heart wrapped around chemicals.

a living relapse. a machine for my temptation.
i am here, searching for a reason to bleed.

i am here, trying to find what endless means.
i am here, a hollow statue in black rain.

dying flower at the edge of the world,
i weep for you
for you do not know me.

dying flower with a thousand eyes,
i weep for you
and you alone.

they're staying up all night
ripping their skin away under
fluorescents
trying to
make their
words more
jagged

a song shouts
as I run atop the tip of death,
in all its paltry fiction.
reality spins itself into one bright dream
alone, underneath infinite hope.

rain never reaches
the warmth in the windows
and darkness can't touch this dancing soul
yet

remember that this will be over before a second hits the ground. remember that suffering is an ephemeral little thing. a little wren of ash. already broken before it even hatches. it will pass. like another storm. another falling tear.

the only way i know how to touch the sky
is through the ribs of the dead.

sleep melds
in a vat of night
    the streetlights are deathly still

unperturbed on this black book of silence
      tears tap-tap on your windowsill.

there is a special place
hidden in the space
between
your fingers
and the stars
you couldn't
catch

but it doesn't change the fact
that all you can give to the world
is an awkward wave to a girl
who may be dying.

it makes sense, doesn't it?
if poetry comes from pain,
why not take the pain of every soul
and place it in your own?
wouldn't that give you as many poems
as there are tears?

life—
a mere crack
in infinite glass.

know this, my child:
the things that burn your eyes
will also burn your soul.

you will find a moment when your words must become an open hand, flickering open to light another's darkened road. you wish to show them your heart, yet how will you do that if all you have behind your tongue are broken pieces of phrases oft repeated? 'i'm here if you need me.' 'i'll be there for you.' 'i have sympathy for you.' others have spoken these very words many times over. they are cursed with the knowledge that no matter how much love sticks the syllables together, the words will never be whole.

time fell through bone fingers
as ashes do
when spilled

alone with the seconds tapped out by my feet, ticked out by the clock. i wonder if the hands get bored of circles? of turning gears? of being read? do they follow the expectations on them to give the correct time? do they crack under pressure, ticking a few seconds late or a few seconds early? are their poems about their life like poems about mine?

as she wept
bones became
songs.

i
don't
know how
i'm being
screamed at by silence.
i don't know what these rooms are for-
filled with ghosts and curtains that will never stop haunting.
i watch these stacked rooms from afar as we drive home. a wraith whispers light into their ears.

wings wink behind leaves
clouds are too high to see me
should I try waving to them?

the most powerful emotions are only a few syllables long

i see poems in my dreams
but i can't write them.

i'm haunted by demons in my head
but i can't fight them.

i've done wrongs in my past
but i can't right them.

so many dark paths to wander down
but i can't light them.

so many bright futures ahead
but i can't sight them.

the lost dog has died
Hades will come and find him
in night's forest, where
the mother Nyx hugs the trees,            
trying to console their grief.