Emotions run deep, and deeper they must seep
But what do they seek?
Nothing but sheltering words,
be it from a Sheik, or a Greek.

The imagery is both out-worldly and unspeakably realistic
We try to find a way, a channel, a historical shuttle
Only to have it expressed in vague words
"Here, another puzzle".

The words dance in rhythms and riddles
Sometimes unfathomable,
Yet once aligned, they cast a spell.

The spell is poetry.. and it has a society
Countless souls, and souls yet to come
11th of August, marked the arrival of its rightful king
Tired and tireless, a lifetime of embodying poetry

O captain, my captain!

Let us roam the forgotten streets and share a bottle of cheap gin

Let us whisper inappropriate jokes into the ears of those who deem suicide a great sin!

And Let us remember that once conscious, mankind was in tragedy,
but through comedy, we found our remedy.

Rest in Pieces,
For I swear to Jesus, I can hear your laugh at "Pieces".

Not even ***

Nor love

I just need a hug

my ghost, my ghost
my darling ghost
tonight, like most
leaves only sorrow in the sepulchral depths
of these quiet sheets
my heart, my heart
my foolish heart
will stop, then start
no matter how much I despise the sound
of those steady beats
my one, my one
my only one
like winter's sun
slides deeper behind the clouds above
-i must release
my hope, my hope
my endless hope
cannot fade, though forced away
for your peace
my ache, my ache
my lovely ache
i cling to with a child's fearful grip
unable to let go
my ghost of hope, my aching heart
my only one
you have shown me who i must become
and for you it will be so.

Shiftless, sifting the air,
Plunging gyrations,
Crow speak
Hackle, hacking;
Speckles the sky.

Saw the air whittle to smoke,
Black mar in the weir of wings
And mankind muddled in the wraith,
Slowly streams a bread trail
Forth and back;
Black bleeding.

I see your claw tracks,
Dark-digging-sparkle
Plain in the muck,
Needles threading,
A trail of stars.

I'm sitting in a bar. A place where they all collect. They come together with smiling eyes and open hearts and sit, drink and just shoot the ****. They are all noteworthy people, not a boring or reserved soul among the bunch. And they share stories of their highs, lows and purgatories.

One of them, his name's Jimmy, tells the story he always tells when he's teetering between coherency and slop-talk. He tells of how he died. He hopped in his car one day, and boy did he love his cars. And that particular car, the one his heart stopped beating in, was his favorite. He sped down the road, his hair blowing in the wind and his hand beating the side of the door as he sang "Strangers in the Night" as it blasted through his radio speakers. He wasn't drunk, he never really was fond of drinking when he was still breathing (he says being dead is depressing and alcohol is the only thing that "assures" him). His car swerved sharply, it was raining, and he just couldn't control the hunk of metal. His head hit the windshield before he even knew what happened.

Jimmy looked down at his Jack and Coke and smiled. His eyes, now drowning in salt water, glistened off the cheap fluorescent lights. He told me he never got to tell his mother he loved her. Never got to tell his girlfriend that he thought they were meant to be. Never got to show the world that the man hidden behind so many layers of insecurity and recklessness was a man that was going to span time, generations. And I look back at him, my mouth curling a little and told him that he might not have gotten to talk to his mother or his girlfriend... But he **** well made his mark. After all, he's in a bar filled with dozens of people with stories not unlike his own. And he's talking to me. Me, with my chest inflating and deflating as it filled and emptied itself of sugary oxygen. Me, with my eyes alive and blinking and shining with life. Me, who is alive.

At least, I hope to God I am.