a thousand spirits wail
outside these castle walls
a thousand unhinged faces so pale
do they cry for me or of me?
from hazed kingdom of the moon king
or from bitter enemy are they sent?
no harm do i bring
all i wish is to cloak land in silver glow
why hate me so?

this heart is so dead cold
running from place to place
burning lovers like hotel matchbooks
toss them in the building fire
it's my funeral pyre

twelve strikes calls the river
to run on the peach silk beds
to pool on white cotton covers
one strike calls the gut-punching
the anger and the screaming
to burn the sins of the day before
two strikes calls the dark haze
slowly beckoned
by the tiring tirade against my soul
three cents to bet
that i might wake up the next day

And I've played it back a thousand times in my head,
that perfect memory of where it was just you and me,
lying wide awake at 3am under the covers of my bed,
listening to the tranquil breaking of the midnight sea.

We both knew that was my last night in this small town,
in the morning I would be headed far off for university.
You knew it would be hard with me no longer around
but you kept silent and let me leave for New York City.

And when the morning came, you smiled me goodbye
as our hands aligned against the window of the train.
Your mood reflecting the bleakness of the falling rain
as you were left behind to watch our last moments die.

Clothes constrain
Skin contains
The insides I wear on the outside
You don't have to scratch the surface
To find hidden meanings
To catch a glimpse of passion
To see my blood reaching boiling point
You don't have to dig your nails in
To reach through the seven layers
To hear the whispers written on my bones
Scriptures ooze from the ruptures
Lush red tastes of rusted words
Skin the binds
Skin that hides
Stretches over my memories
I wear the patchwork quilt of history
Of the mothers and fathers who have gone before
Sewn together with the glorious stories of yesterday
Stitched with the future's threads
The hopes and dreams of the generations yet to be
My heart, my soul, my skin, my home

They took down the eaves
after all shelter was destroyed.
Left a pay packet
and the desolation of ailments
that sang long after
the contract was done.

Fed the blade across my bicep,
irretrievable fault lines
from everyone I had called a friend.
Every message in a bottle
was a disturbance to still water,
the peace I gathered alone
but could not sustain
with two hands, one mind.

Stole the salt from my hunger,
the youth from my face:

I would not let them take the music.

Filled every cup to feign optimism,
clouded eyes that had seen too much.
Every plateau I took to,
they steeped the gradient,
each flower, they reminded me,
came from death.

They took down the saints of kindness.
Cut each nerve ending
as I slept on broken glass.
Left a pay packet
and a phantom of good will
once I finally loosened the strings,
sailed away at a snail's pace,

my boat savaged by the tempest,
my sails torn and weary,
my flag falls low, at half mast.