The dew is frozen.
It glitters on the ground like crystal,
Diamonds to those who see.
It brings an edge to the world,
As though everything’s in sharp focus.
So ephemeral, this frosty dew,
Gracing us only so long as it’s permitted.
Its cold beauty is breathtaking,
And demands silent reverence.
So why, then, do people find it
Nothing more than a nuisance,
And yet gripe when its life expires?
Beautiful even in death,
The dew blesses our sight with its grace,
Reminding us that every so often,
Silence must be kept,
So that the world may speak to our hearts.

Beyond the perfect painted picture
Lies a chaotic catastrophe.
Inside the perfectly shaped box
Is a jumble of fragmented pieces.
Behind the flawless painted mask
Is dry, cracked clay.
Underneath the flawless skin
Is ripped and bleeding muscle.

Sometimes when I’m walking through the house,
A face floats up from the shadows, scaring me.
I pause and turn, looking at this other girl.
Who is this girl, this girl I keep seeing?
Who is this girl, this girl who keeps following me?
She seems familiar, somehow, almost as though
I knew her at some point in the past.
I raise a hand to touch her face, her cheek.
The girl does the same to me, reaches up and out—
Both both our hands reach only cold glass.
Is it really only me? Only my cold reflection?
But that’s not what I look like—
That’s not who I am—or perceive myself to be
On the inside, beyond flesh, muscle, and blood.
This person is a stranger to me, and I to her.
So why is her face on me, I in her body?
Why must I live a stranger, when it’s only me inside?

There are so many stories swirling around me,
So many twisting threads of Life.
All I have to do is reach out in front of me,
And grab one of the swirling scrolls,
And spread it out on the table before me.
Then, I can read it, step-by-step;
Page-by-page the truth makes itself known;
Word-by-word, a brand new color is revealed.
My Light may dim; it may brighten—
Regardless, it’s changed forever,
And it changes yet again
When I pull another manuscript
From the plethora of stories that dance.

A vast plain stands before me,
So large the horizon blends
With its yellow-green grasses.
I’m always walking,
My feet are always moving,
I never take a break.
Sometimes the plain moves
Normally underneath my feet,
But, sometimes, it rushes past,
One step taking me seven leagues;
Sometimes, only two centimeters.
I don’t usually see others
On this vast plain that I’ve come to call my own;
And when I do, it’s usually
Just silhouettes or shadows,
Nothing substantial or solid.
Sound is distorted here, too;
Sometimes low and slow,
Sometimes high and fast—
I can’t usually understand
The vibrations that come from the shadows.
Of course, I can’t understand
The grasses that bend in the wind
Either.
I can’t understand the plain
That moves at different speeds
Either.
All I can do is take one step,
Then another, and another,
Until I finally find out
Where the plain meets the horizon.

The tree is bent.
It stands tall,
But it’s bent.
Water drips from its barren branches,
Hot, stinging droplets skewed by gravity,
A deep, rich, sapphire blue.
Drip, drip, fall the droplets,
Falling from an unknown tree.
Below waits an invisible basin,
A basin that provides optical illusions,
Illusions of being filled
Even though the droplets quickly drain.
Yet still the tree stands,
Shedding these sapphires,
Trying to remain tall in the storm.

Disillusioned.
Misinformed.
Following nothing
But smoky shadows.
Cold and calculating,
Warm and thick—
When cool heads
Meet hot blood,
The results
Are disastrous.
Flames extinguished
By watery tears.
Far away,
Right in front—
It’s all the same.
It’s all the same
Dark red
And gray water.