It started with a fire
built with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
Whether it is your fault or my own,
our lives are intertwined
in the flame.
Still, the breath of our moon
carries a message
to us both;
never offer up the slightest wave
of shame.

Calling from the ground is the rain
that found the wind
that blew paper from my hands.
A wind that practiced
the religion of picking up pieces
of broken hearts
and throwing them back down,
only to kiss their cries
with a stampede
of what they cannot understand.

A well thought out plan started out
with a fire built
with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
It is not your fault,
nor is it mine.
If we can we ever stop listening
to the winds
that kiss the cries of our broken hearts,
from the flame, we would come
unentwined.

and already
i see the lay of the land before me,
all it will bring.

i travel up this mountainside,
for what else can i do
but move along?

the cold fear grips my head,
leaves my hands bloodless,
frozen upon the reins.

and i dig,
i dig the spurs of my resolve
into this steady steed.

to this place i go now,
this hot burning land
where all my anger dwells;

and the music there screams my name, screams

my complacency.

i train my gaze upon the horizon of

my freedom.

and i dig;
i dig the spurs of my resolve
into this steady steed.


Here be my dragons!

and their hot, fetid breath
will scorch my vapid plain.

My love is like
a play enacted on a curtain.
I can do anything with shadows:
sharp edges and dark heart.
Touch it– try to touch it
and the warm silk ripples away
and leaves nothing but the space
where the light travels.

Ignorance is bliss.
You never really understand how true that is until you’re thrown into the death spiral called adult life. When you’re little...you eavesdrop. Just to get a little bit of information. You catch the end of almost every sentence; you hear things...and want to hear more. You ask about it, and you hear the same thing over and over again. You can join in on the conversation when you’re older. You’re too young for this. I'll tell you later. And when you hear that...you know they’re not going to say a thing.
And then you grow a little older, and you see a little more. You hear a little more. And finally you understand that maybe you didn't want any of this. This responsibility to keep things secret. But then something catches your attention. A little thread sticking up from the nicely woven blanket...
And you’re suddenly interested again. You’re thrown deeper and deeper into the death spiral. And soon, once you're very much older... old enough to understand. To hurt. To think. To betray.... you know.
You hear more and more. And things start to fall into place. You see that maybe your parents aren't as happy as they seem. That the reason you didn't get that one Christmas present you've been dreaming about wasn't because Santa lost your letter, it was because money was tight, and the bills were being paid. The more you learn, the more you see, the more you hear....
You realize this grown up stuff, this privilege of knowing what all of the adults are talking about...
It isn't what you thought at all. You don't like it. In fact, you want to go back to the time when mommy was your best friend; daddy was your hero...
When the only problems you had were scraped knees, and what game to play next.
You realize that all the things that were amazing and perfect back when you were little...
They were just covering the lies. The things your parents were hiding... from you.
You know.... it is fact.
Ignorance really is bliss...

Days pass like winter winds,
But memories of ****** sins
Of prisoners mine forever live
So long as I shan’t forgive.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

Atop a bench of elm,
The throne that rules this realm,
I, judge and jury, tread
The path of justice dead.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

A soul, grieved and daunted,
By malediction haunted,
Shall drop before me, praying,
Whilst I lean in, saying,

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

“He is not I. Silence
Your foolish pleas of guidance.”
“I beg!” he shall say, “Save me!”
“Nay,” I shall say, “no mercy.”

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

His penance I shall write,
And with eyes blank as night,
The soul will gaze, pleading,
With eyes he shan’t be needing.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

Their prison is not a cell
So solace cannot dwell;
Their fate: a wall of stone
Where they shall hang alone.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

I shall place his wrists in chains
Though I have not the reins
To latch his iron locks:
He bound himself to the rock.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

With a cry of a thousand woes,
A coal black mass of crows
Will swarm the soul to feast
And eat the morbid beast.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

After which, I shall call;
A soul shall approach the wall.
He shall gaze upon my empty face
Praying for fickle grace.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

Pray as he shall, no salvation
Follows recitation,
For I alone decide
How far from the path he strides.

*IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

I have your heartbeat
she said cupping
her cool hand over
his clothed chest
shifting on his lap
just to feel the way
his arms tightened
around her waist.

Cover the touch wandering in and out
of the brightest tides of time
because  the splendor of diamonds
will run away
leaving you with empty hands that sigh.
Let your voice light everything
that shakes your blessings,
so that you may live,
continue standing
never hide.

Count the stars in silence,
get lost
in their features
as you dream of holding hands
with the tides of time.
You will find yourself in flight
over roads that meet years
full of deep eyes
with no tears.
Countless thoughts you will treasure,
raining down
in perfect rhyme.

Bid farewell to your trust in wealth
it can die before your eyes.
Cover the touch
of the brightest tides of time.
Count the stars in silence
when you fly over the roads
of your memories.
A strong breeze
will blow into your thoughts,
sweet
as the finest wine.