Eighteen years.
Eighteen long years I've lived on this planet,
Slaving away as another conformist to most rules
(But only so I could survive
And get an education, despite the breakdowns
As my mind couldn't handle the pressure
Of today's expectations).
At times I thought I wouldn't make it;
My lows were... pretty low;
They sometimes cancelled out the highs completely,
Or at least made them seem not so high.
But somehow, I made it,
Along with all the other eighteen-year-olds.
And so I say, congratulations.
We made it.
We may be beaten, bruised, and battered,
Broken, cracked, and frayed,
But we're here.
Brace yourselves.
We're in for a whole new set of challenges.

If you believe you are worthless,
You are wrong.
Ask your friends and family—
Ask the ones around you.
They’ll be able to tell you
At least a little
Of how you’ve influenced them.
Maybe talking to you
Brightens their day.
Maybe they come to you
For advice.
Maybe you provide
That critical listening ear.
Maybe your smile
Puts them at ease.
Maybe you have brilliant ideas
That remind them to discard The Box.
I speak of all these Maybes,
But I leave it up to you
To find out exactly how
You’re needed
You’re wanted
You’re loved
You have worth.
Write them down.
Look at them again and again
When you’re hovering in the Void.
Maybe it won’t bring you out,
But maybe it’ll keep you
From falling further.

If trees could speak,
What would they say?
Could they recount the tales
Of all who crashed
Under their boughs?
Do they keep a list—
Even make it a game—
Of how many cars pass
Per day, per week, per decade?
Do they remember
Each fallen brethren,
Move to catch them
When they fall?
Do they have rivalries
About the biggest size
Or the best patch of soil
Or the most growing seeds—
Or are they past all that
And the weeping willows
Took it upon themselves
To weep for us humans
Who distinguish between
Small insignificances?

There's a room full of vases
And each one is different.
Some have cracks,
Others, fractures;
Some have crumbled,
Others, shattered;
Some have different colours
In a patchwork pattern.
Some look whole and well
But only from a distance;
Others' cracks are so fine
Only the vase can tell it's broken.
But each vase is beautiful.
Each vase can be useful,
Be patched up and hold something.
This room full of vases
Appears sad to some,
But it is also
Brimming with life.

Dogs roam the streets,
Scraping out a meager living
From the scraps thrown out of windows.
There is a house
In the middle of all the others.
In this house
Lives a man,
A man who watches the dogs,
Tosses them food
So that they would not starve.
At times he approaches a dog,
Talks gently and soothingly—
Though he can rebuke them harshly,
But only if need be—
And he will invite the dog into his home,
But the dog has the final say.
The dogs decide whether to follow
And even when to leave.
But the man is patient.
He will wait as long as necessary.
At times he will change his tactics
And send some of his dogs out
To mingle with the wild ones.
His dogs proudly wear the collars he gave them.
They befriend the wild dogs,
Sometimes ostentatiously flashing the collar,
Sometimes just wearing it
Until another dog shows interest.
At night they return to the man’s house,
Curl up by his fire,
Full from his bread and wine.
And sometimes, a wild dog
Will follow one of the man’s dogs home.
There are dogs who leave the house
And never return.
There are dogs who fashion a collar
Similar to the ones the man makes
And they wear it
And say they are of the man’s home,
But they are no more
Than the wild dogs among whom they live.
However, the man is patient.
He forgives them.
He still tosses them food,
Still heals them,
Still speaks gently,
Still awaits the day
When the join him in his home.

I want to write something deep and poetic
About the fireworks I saw.
But all I can come up with
Is the physical attributes—
The seeing that I did,
The hearing that I did,
The feeling that I did,
The experiencing that I did.
Red comets shot upward
In a slight arcing path
To explode in brilliant light
And rain down upon the spectators.
There’s a hush of anticipation in the audience
Between the moment they notice
The curling smoke trail,
The breathtaking visual display,
And the slightly delayed KERPOW
As the firework’s sound
Finally makes its way through the air.
Each exploding fragment
Fizzles through the air with a quiet hissing,
Competing with the screeching
Of the next firework going up.
It’s almost kind of sad:
Each firework aims for the sky,
Reaches as high as it can go,
Leaving behind bits of itself as it does so,
But hits some invisible ceiling—
Some fireworks’ ceilings
Are higher than others—
And that is their maximum.
They can take no more,
They cannot reach the sky,
They cannot reach the stars,
They cannot reach their brethren,
And so they explode in their sadness or anger;
But in doing so,
They light the way for others.

She danced with death.
At times they would wait on opposite sides of the room,
Stealing glances of each other around the other guests.
At others, they would stand so close
Their breath intermingled like the winds in the trees.
They held each other gently,
Both afraid to hold too hard
And have the other shatter into scattered fragments.
They would twirl and sidestep gracefully,
Making others yearn to watch
Yet afraid to do so, for doing so
Might upset the magical balance they’d set up.
And so the two dance on—
Waltzes, tangos, ballets,
Separating briefly to catch their breath
And to let the tension build from across the room.

The pages crumble in my fingers
And wither away to nothing.
The letters swirl off the page
And find some other soul to comfort.
The binding becomes unraveled
One stitch and glue string after another,
Melting down to nothing more
Than liquid sinking through the floor.
The covers themselves are eaten by the darkness,
The voracious darkness that never slumbers.
All I’m left with are my stark white hands
And a rectangular hole in my chest.

You contemplate the past,
Revel in the present,
Envision the future.
Hope is in your steps.

Wounds do not disappear,
But slowly, over time,
They are soothed,
And they are healed.

You make a beautiful Venn Diagram,
Where the overlapping section
Is about equal
With your separate sections.

Love is love,
And once you’ve found it,
You know.

Time keeps marching on.
We are powerless to stop it.
Our strongest forces
Cannot halt the ticking story.
But
What we can do
Is stretch it out—
Stretch time out—
Make every second count,
Fill every minute
With the beating hearts of life.
That is what we can do.
That is how we can remain strong
In the wrinkled, weathered face
Of Time.

The silence is calling.
The silence is beckoning.
I can hear it.
I can feel it.
My lids grow heavy
And my head nods against my chest
In time with my slowed heartbeat.
The silence is around me.
The silence is everywhere.
I embrace it as it embraces me.
Silence, silence, silence,
It calls.
*Come, sleep.
Fight the foes of your world
And vanquish them in your sleep,
For when you sleep,
The troubles will come,
But you can fight them,
Defeat them, overcome them.
Come, and be the hero you never dreamed you could be.

Someone will love you the way you deserve to be loved.
Someone will see your rough hands and love that you have the tenacity and determination to overcome everything you've faced.
Someone will love you enough to ***** their own hands and help you carry your burdens and hardships.
Someone will love you enough to see that you have monsters but not press you to share them until you're ready,
And then they will love them as they love you,
Or they will help you vanquish them.
Someone will love you and all your quirks.
Someone will look at you and see a strong man or woman who can overcome anything he or she sets his or her mind to.
Someone will love your intellect and look upon you with the awe you deserve.
Someone will love your laugh and the way it lights you up from the inside
And they will take it upon themselves to help you laugh,
Even if they have to wait a bit because it's difficult for you.
Someone will love you night after night after night,
And they will love you enough to wait.
Someone will hold your hand even when it's sweaty and it's okay because theirs are sweaty too.
Someone will love your face even when it’s completely natural.
Someone will accept your body as your body, no matter its fitness level or smell.
Someone will understand that your stomach growls because you're hungry and that's only human.
Someone will be concerned whenever you cough or sneeze.
Someone will be patient for you and reassure you over and over again about the insecurities you harbour in your heart.
Someone will place a calming hand on your knee when it's bouncing, and remove it if it makes you uncomfortable.
Someone will find it touching that you remember everything you say to each other.
Someone will protect you when you're scared and understand when to encourage you and when to let you do what you want at the pace you want.
Someone will look forward to gazing into your eyes and seeing all the emotions that lurk there,
But they will know when not to say anything.
Someone will love the ink or music notes or movement leaking from your fingers because that is your soul coming out and it's beautiful.
You are beautiful.
Someone will love your sense of humour and look forward to your jokes.
Someone will love your teeth because they're yours,
And your eyes because of the secrets they hold within.
Someone will be able to tell when you're forcing a smile on your face and wait patiently for the real ones.
Someone won't care about how fast or slow you talk because it's still your voice.
Someone will love your lips and anticipate the time they can next kiss them.
Someone will see you for you and love you regardless.
Someone will wait for you to outwardly show your emotions,
Even if it's only with them.
Someone will love you, someday.

It’s hard to move forward in life
When Past still has its razors lodged in your flesh.
It’s hard to look to the past for help
When Future’s clouding your vision.
It’s hard to live in the present
When Past and Future are using your mind
As a rope in a game of Tug-of-War.

Who am I?
I am the Imposter.
I creep inside your body when you’re not looking
And I snip your soul from your flesh
But I don’t let it leave,
Oh, no.
No, no.
I keep it tethered,
Feed off it,
Absorb its very essence—
Absorb your very essence.
And I act in its place.
I change you slowly at first—
An odd action here and there
That you feel is wrong,
That you feel is not you,
Because your tethered soul knows it’s not you
Doing those odd things.
But you think it is you doing those things,
Because who else could it be?
And so I change you,
Bit by bit,
Until you finally open your eyes and realise
Who you are outside
Does not match who you are inside.
Who you are outside,
The one doing these things,
Fits in with the others,
But who you are inside
Is several years younger.
And slowly that gap widens
Until you can’t do anything about it,
Because by then
I’ve made a nice little nest in your flesh
And you don’t even remember who you are.
You can only sit there,
Trapped within your own mind,
Wondering where it all went wrong.

War—
War is ugly.
The cries of the fighters
Meet the cries of the anguished.
(How easily the two intermingle.)
Life bleeds out upon the ground—
Or in the air—
To be lapped up by the animals
And absorbed by the plants.
The reds of rage
Meets the reds of wounds—
And the wounds weep
As the heart weeps
And the heart weeps
As the earth weeps.
War destroys so much more
Than what is before the hunters.
War sends echoes
Reverberating through the ages.
When will everyone hear these echoes
And put a stop to the cycle?

The writer pours his soul into being,
Letting his blood turn to black ink.
It splashes onto the pages and forms words,
Words that give his life meaning.
He sits back, looking at his hands,
His hands that created this wonderful work.
But then he pauses, staring in captive horror—
The words—his words—are moving—
Moving quickly—squirming—rising up—
Bunching together—swarming toward him—
They’re at his hands now—no, his arms—
His neck—choking him—darkness—
*Why?

It’s the dark creature crouching in the corner.
You know it’s there, but you ignore it.
When it first came, it screeched into the room,
Clawing at your face, your chest, your arms—
Anything and everything it could reach.
But you fought it off, somehow,
After a long, sweaty, arduous journey.
Now it just sits there, brooding in the blackness.
You don’t look at it.
You don’t acknowledge it.
But it’s there—you know it’s there.
You can feel its presence like a vortex.
And it knows you know it’s there.
And sometimes it reaches out a gnarled, clawed hand
And grips your clothes or cups your cheek,
And ice inches down your spine
And crystals cascade down your cheeks.
Soon the creature will fade from its corner,
But replacing it will be a hole—
A hole in the very fabric of the room.

The fires of war will burn
Deep within the heart.
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The enemy we spurn—
Their blood spreads far apart.
The fires of war will burn.

“Bring us death, sir. Please,” the wounded yearn.
“We have done our part.”
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The war’s at last adjourned.
Off the fields I cart
The fires of war that burn.

Soldiers pile up in heaps. I turn—
I list the dead in charts.
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The past will ne’er return.
The conflicts always start.
The fires of war that burn
The ache of loss will learn.

The dryads shake their boughs in the cold half-light,
Their bright, faded leaves leaving handprints on the sky.
They sigh to the wind all their troubles and woes,
Their roots absorbing the wisdom of the Earth.
“Come to us,” they call to the bright-eyed traveller.
“Come and share in our universal knowledge;
“Listen to the croak of the frog, the hoot of the owl;
“Exchange breath with the deer and the lion;
“Remain as we are, everlasting far into eternity.”
Eternity is nothing to the dryads beckoning the traveller.
Their bark shivers in anticipation of the future,
But they know all will be well. “It always is.”
And so they crane their selves towards the travellers,
Hoping they will hear their everlasting message
And join in the blissful peace so oft deserved.

Pigments cascade down the canvas,
Coating the blank white with imagination.
Drip, drip, they fall with grace to embrace
The pocked surface beneath their bodies.
They intermingle, form new forms,
Yet continue to go their own ways,
Unaware of the driving force.

The artist stands off to the side,
Watching his creation swirl.
He created a storm, a beautiful storm.
He folds his arms, his face stoic,
For the pigments express his emotions.

The dust and grime and dirt and death—
The darkened gloom of corners near—
Invade the mind with waning breath,
Steal peace of mind with petty theft;
And lightless grins rise up and leer
Until you think there’s nothing left.

Two lefts don’t make a right.
But I make use of this.
I want to make the left left choice,
Find the left left word.
Because this left left word
Is the opposite of the “right” word.
It does in the opposite direction,
Forges its own stream.
And this is the left left choice.
This is my way.

The glossy raven-crow perches on the wire,
Its carefully-preened wings glistening
With perfect drops of moisture.
It surveys its domain with coal-black eyes—
Coal-black, but not void, not empty—
Black with all the absorbed knowledge,
The deep black of knowing too much,
The tacit black of the extraterrestrial skies.
The raven-crow omits a sound into the air,
Silent to some, but volumes to others.
The raven-crow spoke directly to the air,
And the air understood the message.
The two share the deeply-seated secret,
So it’s not as much a burden as before.
The sun falls into the embrace
Of the curvature of the Earth.
The raven-crow, having received its cue,
***** its obsidian wings once more,
Sending crystal tears to shatter midflight.

The whispers in the corners of the classroom
Rise up like the quiet hissing of serpents,
Swirling around in verisimilitudinous eddies,
Less quiet, less quiet, less quiet, less quiet,
Whispers becoming cacophonous.
The silence screams for quiet;
The silence screams for itself.
But it clings to the forgotten corners of the classroom.

Swirling around in a cloud of chaos,
Of cacophony and disillusionment,
The person floats aimlessly in deep space.
Atom after atom rips itself away
And goes spinning off into the UnKnown.
Dust created, so return to dust.
The person flings arms wide, wide,
To encompass all of the cosmos,
Revel in that which is complex beauty,
Be at peace with Knowing but Not.
And the face begins to swirl
As the dust environment does
And so the person is physically unKown,
Known by personality only,
For the universe has reclaimed the mask.
The arms slowly begin to fade
Just as the face crumbles in finality;
More and more atoms flee
To rejoice in their newfound freedom
Until at last the heart swirls to dust,
Unleashing the long-imprisoned soul
To fly, unbridled, around the world—
Beyond the world—beyond, yes,
Even the farfetched, unrealized dreams.
Flying, swirling, one with All,
Bound by no chains, child of love.

In the deep shade cast by a towering mountain
Lies a monstrous warehouse. And inside this warehouse
Is column after column after row after row after row
Of shelves, shelves, shelves, more shelves,
Fading off into the gloom of the farthest corners.
And on each of these shelves sit dolls—
Hundreds, thousands, millions—billions?
And each of these dolls is defected.
The reason for the defect is branded across the forehead,
Melted plastic forming the biting words:
Pathetic.
Weak.
Prideful.
Snappy.
Self-centered.
Egotisti­c.
Stupid.
Ignorant.
Useless.
And on and on and on these dolls sit,
Shelf after shelf, row after row, column after column.
The dolls gradually age—slowly, almost unnoticeably.
But they age. Each is an “improvement”
Of the one next to her.
The newer model would get though a bit more,
Last just a bit longer, but still fail at some point.
And so the brander draws near, and brands the skin,
Melting plastic to drip softly down as tears.
But the doll can’t cry.
She’s already been shut down and awaits
The day the space next to her will be filled.

Can you hear it?
Do the strains of Earth
Reach to Heaven above?
I think you can hear it.
I want you to hear it.
I want you to hear it,
These notes entering my ears.
They remind me of you.
Can you hear it?
I’m sure you can.
You have to.
Please hear these songs.
Hear the floating,
Dancing, twirling notes
Of both joy and sorrow—
Hear the bittersweet
Tears rolling down my cheeks—
Hear them,
And remember me.

It's a delicate dance that writers perform.
We bow to our insanity and take hold of its hand.
One, two, three; one, two three; one, two, three.
Our feet spin on the fragile glass floor
That is called "proper society" by the masses.
Our coattails or skirts fly out as we dance,
Whipping through the air like our hands do
When we write or scribble or type.
One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.
The tempo changes, the dance is changed.
Still we dance the time away with our partner.
The lighting changes with our mood—
Broadest daylight to deepest night.
Each writer has a preferred time.
One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.
Sometimes we glimpse another's partner,
Bump into them by "accident."
And then our own partner changes,
Taking on just a hint of the other's partner.
And we glide along the dance floor,
Our hearts beating out the rhythms of life,
Our heels clicking out our words,
Our partners forming the stories we write.

My flesh is a shell,
And I the soul that inhabits it.
Yet the soul is not attached—
It is merely enclosed within
The soft shell of flesh.
I drowse—I dip—
My head lolls in fatigue—
I bolt awake, the flesh snapping—
A moment of disconnect
As the soul still lingers
Just two inches to the left.
Woozy, disconcerting, normal
After many years.
Normal, but not admired—
Gentle heavings are not uncommon
As the soul attempts to escape
The prison walls of flesh.
Pain is felt twofold:
Once in the heart of the soul,
Once in the chest of the flesh.
Surreal, this overlay
Of soul and flesh.
But one becomes accustomed to it
After many, many years.

The child floats inside the bubble,
Calm, unconcerned, at peace with
The walls that surround her.
The bubble keeps her in;
The bubble keeps the others out;
All is well, and she is content.
She drifts alone in solitary
Freedom, a single word printed
On the curving walls:
Alone.

The child floats inside the bubble,
Panicked, terrified, banging upon
The walls that surround him.
The bubble keeps him in;
The bubble keeps the others out;
Nothing is okay, he cries to himself.
He drifts alone in solitary
Confinement, a single word branded
On the curving prison walls:
*Lonely.

If there’s a group of people,
And each one has an imaginary friend,
And you put those imaginary friends together,
What do you get?
Do you get a Super imaginary friend?
Do you get a real person?
I’d like to know.
You see, I think I’m one—
A compilation of imaginary friends.
I’m real but I’m not
There to interact with anyone.
At least, I think I’m real.
But doesn’t every imaginary friend?
Or do they know they’re imaginary?
Do these thoughts of mine
Prove my imaginary status?
I don’t think real people
Imagine they’re imaginary.
Do they?

Death, my friend, your hands are so cold.
You cup my cheek and ice ****** my teeth.
You’re so cold, Death, my friend. So cold.
Don’t you want some heat, some warmth?
Will you take some from me?—
I’ll gladly give it, you know—my warmth.
I’m not using it. But you can, if you want.
Death, my friend, you look so sad.
Your eyes are drawn, your cheekbones haggard;
The corners of your mouth are downturned.
Smile, Death, please. Smile for me.
I want to see the flicker of colour in your skin.
Will you smile genuinely for me?
I’ve seen your wan smile, you know.
That is no way to smile—monochrome
Has no right to alight on your face.
Death, my friend, you look so lonely.
You’re not alone, not forgotten.
I’m with you, I see and remember you,
I am not afraid of you. I like you.
You’re my friend, remember? Your friend.
Friends want friends to be warm,
To smile with every colour that has ever graced
A paintbrush, a canvas, a child’s dream.
Death, my friend, why are you holding me?
Is my warmth helping? Have I made you happy?
Death, my friend, your arms are so warm.
Or am I just cold in comparison?
Death, my friend, thank you for smiling so beautifully.
I’m glad you’re warm.

The wound on the beating red
Has lain bare for some time now.
The jagged edges do nothing
To stop the oozing flow of blood.
The pain’s immense—it won’t stop,
Not for all the salves in the world.
But an animal shows up,
A cat, a dog, a mouse, a snake, a turtle—
The species is irrelevant.
The animal approaches in a dream,
Looks the red flesh over,
And gently lays a paw or tail or foot over it.
The edges start to shrink,
New flesh sprouting over the bridging
The two far sides, healing has begun.
The wound will never truly heal;
A puckered pinching of the skin will remain,
But it will be in the shape
Of that paw, foot, hoof, or tail.

A fresh page, a clean start,
The past’s colors mute.
The calm before the storm,
A sense of agitation
Lingers in the stomach not
Quite yet—
But it’s coming.
It’s coming.
The new year is just another day
So why the expectancy?
It’s become an icon, a symbol,
For white, for fresh,
For a chance to start again
And look forward
Rather than behind.
Pick up the brush, the pen, the ink—
Roll out the parchment, the laptop,
The rumpled napkins in the corners—
And let the vibrancy flow and stain
And leak into every crevice of the world.

A single point on a long line
Stretching off into Eternity—
A single dot—Doesn’t seem like much.
At first.
But that one single point
Sends an impact down the line—
Left and right, the impact carries.
Flash forward, flash back—
It’s all the same.
Before and after are impacted.
Neither will ever be the same.
Some people will miss the point—
One small speck it is,
Easily overlooked by many.
But the residual energy resides
And continues travelling
For all Eternity.

Half-forms, half-thoughts,
Rolling, rolling, turning,
Swirling and meshing and churning and fusing,
A whole chaotic jumbled mess

That makes perfect sense to one.

One brave soul amidst the storm,
One strong figure against the tempest,
One resolute leader, unwavering hero,
Can understand the brew.

The others think him mad
For watching the Halfs flash by.
Him, mad? Possibly.
Be he thinks himself sane.
And who can tell him
“Sane” or not?
They see Halfs, he sees Wholes.
They see tumult, he sees languidness.
They see chaos, he sees order.
They see a storm, he sees peace.
So he smiles to himself as they quake;
They do not understand the humour.
The Wholes shared something amusing
With their steadfast Captain,
But the others see Halfs, so the humour was lost.
This is all the more amusing,
And so this sane madman
Laughs and laughs and laughs.

There’s a difference
Between drowning
And sinking.
Both refer to
Being immersed in
A body of liquid.
But drowning
Means you’re rejected.
Drowning
Means you and the liquid
Are at odds—
You’re in the liquid
But you’re not of the liquid;
You are not one
With the liquid.
You cannot breathe,
You cannot hear anything
But your own screams
And your own terror,
You cannot see anything
Other than darkness.

But sinking is different.
Sinking
Means you’re accepted.
Sinking
Means you and the liquid
Have come to an agreement—
You’re in the liquid
And you’re of the liquid;
You are one
With the liquid.
You can breathe,
You can hear everything
Along with soulbeats
And the elusive love,
You can see everything
Cloaked in majestic light.

Thus is the difference
Between drowning
And sinking.
There is death in drowning
But life in sinking.
I’d rather sink.
Which you do prefer?

For a moment,
I am changed.
For a moment,
I cease to have an early body.
For a moment,
I melt away.
For a moment,
I am no longer myself.
For a moment,
I am Love itself.
For an instance,
My arms are no longer arms
But are tendrils.
For an instance,
My embrace is not physical
But emotional.
For an instance,
I turn into Love
And wrap the other
In a penetrating warmth
That I pray reaches
The beating heart within.

I am both the puppet and the puppet master.
I dance to the will of others while subtly controlling them.
I sometimes make myself dance,
The two halves of me controlling and obedient simultaneously.
The shadow that lurks in my shadow—
I am that, too, seeping and oozing over the ground.
The forces in my heart are battling for control—
The shadow and the light are battling.
My heart remains the ****** battlefield,
Littered with dead dreams and riddled with holes.
And all the while the puppet jerks,
Obeying the tug of strings,
And all the while the puppet masker jerks,
Controlling the mass of strings.

Free-floating, gliding around,
No up, no down, no left or right.
A big jumbled mess
That makes perfect sense.
Rocketing at high velocity,
Colliding and sending sparks
Flying in all directions.
The sparks float aimlessly
As the objects that created them.
They leave a sparkling trail
Of stars in their wake.
Trace it back to the origin.
Recreate the collision.
Witness for yourself
The sparks as they fly.
Maybe one day you, too,
Can be part
Of that glorious bang.

The fish flies with fins of fire,
Following fellow friends
To the depths of the sky.
A sashay of the hips,
A flick of the fins—
Cast embers to Earth.
Melding, molding, moving—
These fish of flames flee
The wet bonds below.
Free at last, the fire fins grow.
Gold now—blue—
Brighter than the moon,
Brighter than the stars
That beckon them forth.
And so the fire fish fly with fins
And reject the world’s reality.

A thin crystal grows over the flame,
Inching up its tongues like ice.
Both burn with a raging intensity,
Contributing to each other’s pain.
The light shines through the creeping crystal,
Casting fantastic designs along the wall.
They dance in intricate choreography,
Twirling and dipping and leaping and flying.
Their lanky ephemeral forms lengthen
As the ice creeps ever higher.
The red burns low and sinks to orange
While yellow turns to gold.
Cold blue fire contributes its color—
Pale purple begins to appear.
Will the flame still burn
Within its cage of ice?
Will the crystal quell its heart
And keep it frozen for eternity?
Will the two become one,
Fusing together at last?

The O draws nearer, nearer, nearer—
Consuming, consuming, consuming all—
Swallowing the world, spitting it out,
Redevouring it
Black black gray—
Swirling swirling swirling mess
Time color images thoughts feelings
All consumed, all devoured
By the gaping maw of O
O, O, O
The owl hoots in the night
And the bats beat their leathery wings
Trying to escape the O, O, O
The night, the night—O, the night!
Dark days, dark days
Inside the pit of O—
Days dark as night, dark as the heart
That has shriveled up, withered,
Gray veins pumping sludgy shadows
Through an empty husk,
Around around around in a circle,
No beginning, no end,
No strength to break free of that
O O O

The flow of people swirls around me,
Waxing and waning and ebbing with the light.
They stand and gawk, awe frozen on their faces,
But I can only look serenely on
While my heart of marble flakes inside.
I look down upon them, those children dear,
But I cannot touch their warm flesh
Nor feel their living, breathing heartbeats,
Just as they cannot touch my frozen skin
Nor come close enough to hear my suppressed cries.
Day after day I must stand and watch
Over these lives that flick past before me.
Day after day I am reminded of the loneliness of stone.
Day after day they see nothing but a statue,
A statue without a heart or a soul,
A statue on a pedestal.

The river runs fast and swift,
Churning and boiling and frothing,
Foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal.
But inside my study, I am unaffected.
I look up as it batters at my door.
The hourglass on my desk
Has been upset once more.
It’s lying on its side, the sand askew.
I stand to fix it but my head whirls—
Must not have eaten enough,
Or must not have slept enough,
Or must not have calmed enough.
The reason matters not,
And it keeps me not from my task.
I set the hourglass back on its feet
And sink back into the cushioned chair,
Curling up once more with the tales of old.
I’ve lost track of time now—
The hourglass can only lie to me now—
And I have that river to thank.
Blasted thing.

I lead him to the gallows--
My child, my child.
I do not want to let him go yet.
Not to the gallows,
Those metal jaws of finality.
But I know in my heart
That I have to.
He's been holding my hand for a while now,
Pulling me ever closer.
I did not want to listen.
I did not want to acknowledge those gleaming silver teeth.
But, my child, you have pulled me close.
You have shown me your heart,
And your eyes full of tears.
You know it is time.
So goodbye, my child.
Let me kiss you one last time
Before you release my hand
And stand upon that podium
Where you will disappear.
Let me hear your voice one last time.
I love you, my child, my child.
I love you.

We live in a world of wires,
Of snakes and electrical impulses.
We live in a world that’s both
Interconnected and ignorant.
We live in a world that has been skewed
By the minds of mortal men.
We live in a world of color,
Yet people cling to black and white.
We live in a world bursting with promise—
Yet we look across at each other
And down at what lies below
And ignore the life that sparks around
In lieu of the ghostly imitations
That streak through the snakes.

The clock in my room is silent.
It’s only in my head—my head—
That I hear the snick of time passing.
Snick snick snick—
It mocks me, taunts me,
Pulls me deeper into the nightmare.
Time has become my enemy—
I cannot rewind,
I cannot pause,
I cannot fastforward.
I want to return to Then,
Skip the Now—
Pausing would be horrid—
And not even glimpse the Soon.
But snick snick snick goes my clock—
Snick snick snick goes my mind.
The window floats before my eyes
And I am forced to look through it
And witness the Soon
That I’d rather avoid.
Soon Soon Soon—
Oh how it looms!
Rivaled only by Now
While Then cowers in the corner.
I wish to join it.
Snick flinch snick flinch snick flinch.
Snick snick snick
Snick snick SNICK
SNICK snick SNICK
SNICK SNICK SNICK
SNICK
SNICK
SNICK

Silence.

One card up,
One card up,
Marching over the swirling
Abyss, abyss,
Deep down below.
One card up,
One card up,
Higher and higher they stack.
The dying sun
Casts rays from on high.
No strings attached,
Just precariously balanced,
One card up,
One card up,
Waiting, waiting.
Still stands time.
Shadows lengthen,
Shorten—swirl,
****** backwards
And downwards
By Abyss.

Relinquish the pencil, the paintbrush,
The paint and the water.
Do not worry about where you’re taken
Or what will be painted.
Let not these things trouble you.
Instead remain blank and open,
Willing to be painted by the ultimate hand.
Do not worry yourself with the picture—
Let the Painter take over,
And the picture He paints
Will be better than whatever you could have.
He brings His Canvas
To the right spot at the right time
And uses the right tools
To form the perfect Picture
That could only be made
On that one Canvas.