She ran freely in the wind, hair in disarray
Faster than the alpha wolves every night and day
Who nipped at her heels, though she never backed down
At the prospect of conjuring herself a new crown.
Her craft wasn't thieving, deceiving or conceiving
Pandora was a girl consumed by achieving
The next great adventure, taken like a pill
Her soul yearned for a magic touch to fulfill
Her wildest dreams; curiosity, sated
Pale hands; a gilded box; finally, elated
That all the things she never knew were beneath one lid
How DARE the world deprive her and declare they forbid
Efficacious Pandora to chain her passion
Spinelessly docile just wasn't her fashion
So she carefully crept in the dark of night
And beheld in the box a new strange light
An army of miseries glowing vivid and real
(But she had never lived with behavior ideal)
Now Hate, Selfisness, and Jealously shone like jewels
But at least I made the history books now, Pandora thought,
because I
                 broke
                       ­     the
                                    rules.

She is a bird in a cage that you keep,
whose songs you ravage and reap.

But she is a silent, catastrophic storm;
she will requite, and destroy your form.

Until your own ashes and dust you adorn,
and to your bones, your flesh is torn—

bare flesh, bearing every sin and desire,
and in her claws, these she will acquire.

The bird will abandon her feathers and skin:
she is the aethon, and she will soon begin to disembowel you and devour everything;
while you shriek, she will laugh and sing.

Against your empty vessel, each fiery kiss sears,
and her mocking cries echo in your hollow ears.

Your birds chant to the rhythm of your torment:
"For your stolen fire, you will atone and repent."

Ignorance, bliss, an indiscriminate kiss,
gracefully balanced atop a bone-crunching fist.
A sleuth in the shadows,
a looped rope in the gallows awaits to hang the one who climbs it toward the hallowed.
The stairs on which you ascended with the promise of heaven ended;
abruptly, unjustly, and with heavy fists corrupting.
The body and soul, your constitution…
In contrast with your ego’s delusions,
Have shown themselves to be
The antithesis to illusion.

The reality belief is a cold-blooded thief,
that will rob you of your senses and leave the self-defenseless to the distortion of optics,
the twisting of oral…
Succumbing to illusions of evil and/or moral.

Of course, one would ask, “What am I to do?”
The answer is simple: Do not look within,
For the sought-after lies through.
Heighten awareness to see through the hallowed,
for the beast in you cannot be drowned.
If it forces the waters to shallow.
Consciousness is heavier than the act of mere existence
If it is heaven is you seek, you’ll need much more than sheer persistence.

He gives me a premature ventricular contraction,
simply referring to inefficient blood circulation.
Causing my heart to skip a beat on every occasion.

Ever so often thereafter, he performs a cardiectomy –
In other words, a surgical removal of the heart, on me.
Through, which my precious heart is stolen by my Baby.

I still experience dyspnea – difficulty in breathing,
and my breath is taken away by he who is my Spring,
My one and only significant other and my everything.

I think I'm a lover of fire.
Candles and incense, bonfires and fireplaces, passion and creative force, stars and sage, the rising and falling of the sun.
The destruction of the old, the birth of the new.
Igniting the flame. Being set ablaze.
The heat,
The energy,
The burn.

Deplorable and horrible;  Despicable, abhorable;
It reiterates, evaluates, desiccates, and exacerbates.
It never fails to fall too short, but always fails as a support
In an attempt to be freed, it misleads to bad deeds
And creates a hunger -- vacuous, yet impossible to feed.
It chases the light away and it longs to be alone.
And I am so ashamed to say, that in my skull it found its home.

So I will fight and fight against it, but I will always lose the battle.
I have found that even as I trudge ahead, that somehow I still straggle.
It is the artist, I am the instrument. Like a light bulb to its filament.
Every day I am at the bottom, forced to climb back up the hill again.
But I think the day has come... when I have finally stopped walking.
I have reached a door that can’t be opened, and have decided to stop knocking.
It is me and who I have become; it is my actions and what I have done.
And as much as I despise it, it seems my brain and I are one.

I will tuck myself away, lock the door and here I will stay.
I am right where I belong, hidden by darkness and dismay.
I will mingle with the dark, and the beasts that vanish come the day,
Because I seem to fit right in where the rest of the monsters play.

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.

Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.