Dustdirtgrimefire
Burningburningsulfuracrid
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Flashbangsilencedark
Warmliquiddrippingcold
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My hand No
Not my hand
Hand handnoarm
Cold hand
Alone with me
Shallowbreathingbeatingheart
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Hellonotonguedead
Helpnocrystrong
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Handreachingeyeblinking
Handarmtorsohead
Per­sonlightblindinghurts
Is this the end?

Clinging to the corner,
The ceiling,
The unused room upstairs,
The dusty cellar basement;
Lurking in the shadows,
Cringing from the light.
Retreating for now
But returning later,
Stronger, faster,
Harder to ignore.
Long, gangly, sickly;
Short, stocky, powerful;
Tiny, flitting, wispy;
Huge, full, pervasive.
Cunning, plotting, patient.
Always there,
Always watching,
Always waiting.

When heads are bowed
And eyes are closed,
The soul escapes.
They leave the Earth
And float on high
Throughout the aether.
They drift together,
Bumping into each other,
Sharing thoughts and feelings.
It’s a beautiful sight,
A beautiful feeling,
Those glittering souls.
Free from the burdens of life,
Bathed in the warm glow above,
All is well.
Until, at least, to the physical
They return.

Sidestep, sidestep,
Twist and lunge.
Day is coming;
Night is done.
Words elusive
Slip though time,
Never joining
To form a line.
Grasses wither,
Flowers bloom;
Sun shines brightly
Amidst the gloom.
Deepest blackness,
Force of night;
Nothing hidden
From its sight.

I look to the horizon with a spyglass,
Trying to discern what’s there.
A small child waits beside me,
And I clutch her hand;
She grips my hand in return
While clinging to the fabric I wear.
We have never been apart in all our years,
Ever since we first met.
I glance at her every now and then,
Look her full in the face,
See the wrinkles that line her eyes
And the pale complexion she shows.
Every so often we converse;
Her voice is still and quiet.
I have to strain to hear her words,
But she has to hear mine as well.
We talk about the days gone by,
The ones she’s living now
While to me they are events of the past.
And once our conversation is over,
I return the spyglass to my eye
And stare beyond the horizon.
I wonder what it’s like over there,
What lies in wait for me.
I imagine myself among those shores,
Wriggling my toes in the sand.
But the time has not yet come,
And I still have a child to care for.
I won’t ever let this child go,
And she knows this,
And adheres herself to my side.
I have been told to let her go,
To leave her with those who will care for her
In ways I never can.
To look around me instead.
But she looks at me with those wide eyes
And my heart is swayed.
So she stays with me on my journey
To beyond the merging of above and below.
And someday, someyear, the horizon
Will come to me, and I to it,
And at last I will know
What was waiting for me.

The clockhands spin,
‘Round and ‘round,
Trapped forever
In an endless cycle of chase and capture,
Flee and chase,
Chase and capture.
‘Round and ‘round
In an endless dance
That lasts long after the hands stop moving.
The hands will spin for eternity,
A backdrop to Life.

Plants
Feed off both the darkness
And the light.
They are planted in darkness,
Grow in darkness,
Survive the darkness.
They reach out through the black
And manipulate it
And thrive on it.
Then they reach the light, they still remain
Partially buried in the earth.
Just as an iceberg
Hides itself under the water,
So, too, do plants
Hide their amazing network
Of sturdy roots
Beneath the soil.
Many look at a plant
And marvel at its wonders
Without a second through
About the maze of life
That supports that
Which lives in light.

I see the tears,
Of anger, of sadness, of loss.
I know not anymore—
I have forgotten by now—
What happiness, joy, and thankfulness
Mean, what they look and feel like.
There is only darkness down here,
And I have hardened my heart
Against the pleas of humans
Lest my light be extinguished as well.
So when Orpheus came knocking
With his bright, lively music,
My heart was opened,
And I could feel it beating once more.
So this is what Love is,
How Happiness glows from within.
It was a beacon in my dark world,
And rekindled my hope.
It was for him and myself
That I let Eurydice go,
But my heart still encased
A small chip of ice,
And my cynical side
Told me I had to test him.
One simple request I gave,
One simple instruction:
Don’t look back; have faith
That your other half will follow.
I waved them off with pleasure
And a rosy hue warming
My cold blue flesh.
I wait with anticipation:
Their love is strong—
Surely this will work.
Surely they will both make it
To the flowers and the grass above.
But a wail and a sob drift to me,
And I feel a tug in my chest:
The feeling I get when a soul drifts down
And joins me in my dank, dark halls.
Eurydice sails past me, pale and blue;
She leaves a sparking trail behind her,
Filled with sadness and anger
And the faint taint of life.
I can see, in my special godly way,
Orpheus far above, crouching in the Sun,
His hands in front of his face
As tears burst from his shut eyes
And his heart is squeezed by invisible hands;
His golden lyre lies beside him, broken.
I close my eyes and sigh,
Disturbing the flames dancing next to me.
My soul count will increase by one
In three, two… one.

When the gold burns low,
And the tongues lick no more,
The shadows come out to play.
They leap and twist, hover and fall.
They bloom and they wither;
They chase each other
Around the dying lights.
They refuse to die, the shadows of light.
Yet die they must,
Along with their snaking friends,
And at last they are born away
By the wispy hands of the wind.

The black waters lap gently
At the shore of an obsidian beach.
I stand with my feet
Just submerged under the water,
My nails shining with kuro polish.
A shinigami waits beside me,
Its hands clasped behind its back
And its gaze fixed unblinkingly
At the distant, curved horizon.
Friends, enemies—I do not know yet:
All I know so far
Is that we’ve been standing here, together,
For quite some time,
And that every so often,
One of us will reach out
And clasp the other’s hand.

Let me see with the eyes of a child—
Pure, innocent, naive,
Unaware that mental boxes exist.
Let me see things in that special light
That shines forth from everyone,
Past any dark sins and evils.
Let Death return to an inquisitive curiosity
At the sudden stillness of an insect or a fish
And not bloom into a growing ache
That lingers in the heart.
Let the colors be revived
And all sights become brand-new.
Let the boundaries be erased
And laughter be drawn instead.
Let me see, as a child does,
The true power of a warm embrace
Or a friend that never leaves.
Let me see with the eyes of a child
Just once more,
Before even my current vision fails me.

If you see a set of footprints
Leading off into the distance,
Do not follow them their course.
You may follow them a ways,
But make sure it’s brief;
Do not follow them their course.
Turn to the left, or maybe to the right,
And forge ahead, my child—
Create your own set of footprints.
You may use the other footprints
For warnings—maybe models,
But it’s important that you make your own.
If you follow not others
And instead follow that which is in you,
You will see sights no one else has,
Accomplish feats unique to you.
Climb the mountains, cross the rivers,
Sail the oceans, survive the deserts,
Thrive in forests, and tame the tundra,
And your footprints will leave their mark
And you will be remembered.

If life is a tunnel,
It’s long and narrow.
It’s a maze of networks
In the bowels of the Earth.
Sometimes the tunnels
Are used for sewers instead
And you wind up slogging through muck.
At other times,
The tunnels are high and dry
And everything seems good.
Since the tunnels meld together
Into a near-endless labyrinth,
One can make many choices
And will dictate where one ends up.
The end result?
The Light at the end—
The opening to the surface world—
Or be trapped forever,
Wandering the heated, boiling center
With your life picked at
By nightmares.

A lighthouse,
Pure, bold, and strong,
A light in the darkness,
A reminder of things hidden,
A beacon to the lost,
A respite to for the weary,
A friend to the ones who have lost hope.
A lighthouse
Is an object, physical,
Real in the shifting fog;
A lighthouse
Is also a metaphor
And its uses stretch out
Like the light it shines forth.
It governs and protects;
It strengthens and it warms;
It does the job it’s meant to do
And remains a light for all.

The language drifts around like smoke,
Curling around fingers and through minds,
Whispering of things half remembered,
And hinting at new knowledge.

Blue and yellow arcs
Of pure energy,
Pure electricity,
Dance dangerous footsteps
On the thin wings
Of the butterfly.
Is it protection?
Or is it a curse?
Helpful or harmful,
Not even the butterfly knows.
The dangerous beauty
Holds audiences captive
As the energy arcs and leaps
To a tune others can’t hear.
Up and down, the wings flap
While the energy glows eerily
In the dark, (un)dreary night.
A flash of azure,
A sunspot spit out—
The black midnight body
Lit up by the light all around.

The tears streak down your cheeks,
And the snot leaks out your nose,
But you’re still beautiful.
There’s a certain beauty that radiates
From your eyes and from your face,
From your heart and from your soul,
A silent strength that you have trouble seeing—
Even with a special mirror.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
And I behold yours.

Let my words bleed,
Bleed truth,
Bleed life,
Bleed love.
Let my words bleed for you,
Staining the paper red
With my Self.

Red, green, blue, orange,
Black and gray and white,
Purple hues and yellows too
And colors of the night:
These are the pigments
That fill our world,
Morning, noon, and night.
How foolish it would be
If we couldn’t see
The colors of the day.
But we can hear and smell
And taste them, too,
So they never truly leave.

My Time is broken now—
Or maybe it always has been.
Yesterday seems so crisp,
Until it becomes Yesterday.
Years ago have been preserved perfectly
Within the recesses of my mind,
And yet Two Days Ago
Eludes my desperate grasp.
The ages blur together,
With only a clear snapshot in-between.
Where is the Doctor?
Where is the Repairman?
How much longer must I wait
Before my Time runs smoothly once again?

I hear the breathing of souls around me,
Hear each intake and exhale of life.
I hear the shuffling as they shift in their sleep,
And my heart sings them a soft lullaby.
I see them stretching as they yawn,
Stretching to the eternal sky.
I see them as they grow and learn,
Testing whatever waters they face.
I taste the sweat and blood they shed
And feel their joys and sorrows as my own.
I smell the very essence they leak
From every pore, every crack in their hearts.
I hear every intake and exhale of life,
The breathing of souls around me.

They wish to lionize me,
But I refuse.
I turn my face away
But still look them in theirs
And tell them plainly,
“No, that’s not for me.”

A mouse is a mouse
No matter how big
The mane that’s ****** upon it.
A lion roars,
So big and proud,
But he lazes about in the sun
As his fur grows warm
And his eyes grow heavy.
A mouse is small,
But she’s busy.
Her heart pounds fast
As she avoids being seen
While at the same time
Leaving traces of her existence.

The lion will never
Sneak around in secret,
And the mouse will never
Boldly squeak for attention.

A mouse is small;
Any mane would go unnoticed.
A lion is big;
It will be noticed even without his crown.

And as a mouse
Will never be lionized,
Neither will I.

In and out, in and out.
The seagull cries.
Colors blend and wash ashore,
Drifting in from beyond the skies.

In and out, in and out.
Clouds drift lazily o'erhead.
Winds blow soft and harsh,
Touching where no foot has tread.

In and out, in and out.
The sea salt sprays.
Solid shapes are distorted,
Becoming lost in the haze.

In and out, in and out.
The waves lap the shore.
The sea foam leaps up and o'er,
Dissipating with a silent roar.

In and out, in and out.
The seagulls cry.
In and out, in and out,
The sea will never die.

The colors used to be separate
And lined up neatly in rows.
One could clearly tell just where
One color ended and another began.

But something happened.
Something changed.

The colors melted, swirled
Together on the canvas and
Dripped down, down, down,
Down the canvas, the canvas
That began to stretch and stretch
Off the table and across the floor
And out the door, off to infinity.
There's just a mixed, melted mess
Dripping down my arms and into my lap.
But it hasn't ended yet.
Will I end up consumed,
Or will I make sense of the chaotic colors
Once again?

What words there are to express
The frigid beauty that’s encased
In the fragile film of frosted glass.
The glittering frost that lies on top
Shines forth with pin-***** stars,
Flashing brilliantly white before fading
To a pacific, powder blue
Tinted with a faded lilac hue.
And housed within its cold embrace
Is a soft mystery of timeless age.
Its fleshy tones swirl, unmeshed, together,
Painting stories within stories
And realities within dreams.
The pearl bows and greets the jay
Who waltzes with the jade;
The ruby stretches slowly
As the coral wakes beside it.
And all above their thin-pressed heads,
A frozen dome of crystal
Breathes its breath into the wind.

They think it so big,
So beautiful, so full of promise.
They think it bright and shining,
Full of some inner light.
But they don’t see it.
There’s a lens right in front of their eyes,
Magnifying it beyond normal limits.
It’s not big, not beautiful,
Not as full of promise.
It’s not bright or shining,
It has no inner light.
It’s just plain.
They get so confused when it fails
To satisfy their demands.
And it shrinks from their confusion.
It doesn’t want to confuse
Or disappoint or anger.
It just wants to be seen
For what it is, without a lens.

All they see is a white rose,
White and unblemished.
To them, the thorns are dulled
And hardly even there.
They poke and **** it,
Hoping or seeking to find
At least some sort of gray
Among its pure white petals—
And they find nothing.
So they sit back contentedly,
Satisfied to watch this white rose
Bloom to its full extent.

But they do not see.

For inside this rose of snow
Is a bud of blood.
The inside of this blood bud
Is black and rotting,
Withering and dying.
The taint has begun to work its way
Through the needle-thin veins
And is carrying its gray
To the tips of the petals.

And still they see nothing.
Still they see only unblemished white.

The edges are neat and crisp,
And the wrapping paper gleams
In the weak sunlight
Filtering down from above.
Old, wrinkled hands reach out
And grasp the boxed gift.
Flakes of charred, black skin
Drift down upon it like ashen snow.
Slowly, carefully, the trembling hands
Undo one corner after another,
Flap of paper after flap of paper,
Until at last the brown box shows through.
The box is opened by the hands
As someone waits nearby,
Watching patiently to the end.
The box at last is opened,
And the gift inside is revealed:
Nothing is inside that box,
Nothing but air.
Confused, the hands life pleadingly
To the watching man nearby.
The man smiles warmly
And grasps the hands in his.
Instantly, the hands are healed--
New skin blooms
Where there once was burnt flesh.
And together, the two--
The new and the old--
Disappear into a golden light
That’s pouring from the box.

The cream expanse is withered,
Dry and cracking in the heat.
The black words on the pages squirm,
Wriggling like worms in the haze.
At the same time, the cream is frozen,
Brittle and flaking in the cold.
The black words lie dormant,
Still and lifeless on the page.
And yet in this world of cream and black,
There’s another color that appears.
Its bright red crimson is glowing,
Leaking from the holes in the letters,
Dripping from the edges of the page.
The black text is alive;
The cream paper it inhibits is alive;
How could anyone say differently
Once they’ve seen the sparkling passion?

When two things
Pull equally in opposite directions,
The object doesn't move.
When Red battles Blue,
Nothing gets done.
Red says one thing,
But Blue says another.
Only Blue
Can see both Black and White;
Red only senses them.
Both are Purple,
So which is correct?
Red wants to rush ahead;
Blue wishes to hold back and wait.
What will happen?
Who will win?

There's Green,
Standing off to the side.
It's lost its voice;
Blue and Red
Have stopped listening long ago.
The words have stopped coming
From Green.

I have wings on my heart,
And they let me soar.
True, there are several arrows
Piercing the thin outer skin,
And a few feathers are missing,
But despite all that,
I can still fly.
The joys of others are the wind
That lifts me to new heights.
Two hands wait beneath my heart,
Bolstering it, and being the strength
Needed to carry on.
They’re large and warm,
Full of compassion and healing.
They’re always there and
Never have they failed
To catch my fragile heart
When it wavers and dips.
When I falter, they gently ****
My heart in the right direction:
So up and up I fly,
To the face of my one true Valentine,
To my Lord and Savior
Jesus Christ.

At the end of the day,
When all is said and done,
There’s only one thing that remains:
You.
Constant and never-ending,
You remain.
Unconditional and all-accepting,
You love.
Again and again,
You forgive.
You are perfect in every way
And I am proud to call You
Father
Teacher
Friend
God.

Frozen.
Ba-dump.
Red
And blue.
Ba-dump.
The blue leaks
While the red pools.
Ba-dump.
The red smears
While the blue streaks
Its way through.
Ba-dump.
It’s all purple now.
Ba-dump.
The purple drips
And falls
And tumbles
Through the sky.
Ba-dump.
It plips
On the air
And separates
Into blue
And red.
Ba-dump.
They merge
And flow
And streak
And pool
And are
Ba-dump
Red
And blue.

The little lamb totters around on unsteady legs,
Pretending
That its limbs are sure and strong.
It diverts from the flock,
Frolicking and prancing around in the mud.
Oh! What’s this? Grass! Green grass!
Better grass!
It charges forward, fast as its scrawny,
Spindly legs can go.
The lamb’s almost there, when
BLAM!

Silly lamb.
There’s a wall there, you know.
No matter how hard you try,
You won’t get pas—
Oh. You did.

The lamb munches happily on this new grass.
It finishes and looks around.
It bleats in alarm when it sees
How far the flock has gone.
It bleats again, charges forward…
BLUNK!

Stupid lamb.
The wall’s gone and sealed itself.

KUNK!
THWUNK!

It won’t reopen.
Stupid, stupid lamb.

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.