I strike a match

so I may adore the untamed fierceness

of the flame‘s brief life.

I do this each day

to remind myself of what once burned within me.

I do this each day

to remind myself that even a spark

can be a fire hazard.

It is not because I cannot have you,
that I still want you.

But rather, it is because I still want you,
but cannot have you,
that causes me such pain.

There is sanctity in dance, in the movement of the soul.
But a woman who dances, in light of dark sin
Has no place dancing on church grounds.

She dances barefoot, on moon lit marble floors
Her feet touch the ground for the slightest of moments
She floats and she sways, with her head tilted back
and her lips part open, in sinful relief.

No music plays
No candles are lit
There is no audience.

The lady in red, continues to dance
Ceaselessly until, her feet crack and bleed.
Until her blood mixes and mingles, with the blood of the dead

She dances
and dances
Yet no music plays

But through the sunrise, and longer than day
she moves with her grace, to dance for the dead
until she herself crumbles, bleeding deep red

Lay in silent wait
Watching strangers pass me by
Are they scared like me?

She only listens
And holds her breath in silence
A ghost, a shadow

Moonlight on pale skin
Soft lips part in desire
Lovers in the night

I have seen the night and know it to be a dark masterpiece,
of the otherwise vivid picture of day.
I have seen the night and know it to be a tapestry of our entwined bodies,
which the day casts into stark realism.

I have heard the night and know it to be an echo, a drifting rendition,
of the songs the day will bellow.
I have heard the night and know it to be a whispering waltz,
which the stumbling cacophony of day interrupts.

I have breathed the night and know it to be an elixir, a potion, a perfume,
of the otherwise sharp bouquet of day .
I have breathed the night and know it to be the air between the stars,
that in the day, so abruptly dissipates.

I have tasted the night and know it to be bittersweet and tempting,
where the day is astringent and crackling.
I have tasted the night and know it to be an earthly delight,
which the day renders weightless and clean.

I have dreamt of the night and know it to be a carousel of wonder, a pirouette of fear,
that the day stamps out with its drumbeat of hours.
I have dreamt of the night, and know it to be a mirage, to the divine reality,
of waking in the day,
next to you.

as the trees are burning,
so too are the memories
i made as a child.

each are now embers,
glowing and fragile.
but i cannot hold them,
and so i only watch,
until they are but ash.

There are two sorts of shadows in this world.
The shadows at night that are the mere inky blackness of objects
and the spaces between them,
and these are not shadows to be feared.
These are the shadows you know and feel comfortable with
and which do not prickle your skin or hitch your breath.
The other shadows however, the ones which elicit such a reaction, these are the shadows you should fear.
They have a presence, an omniscience and they watch you.
If you walk into your room tonight and feel your stomach tighten, and now the prickle along your skin, is not from the cold,
or should you feel that the quiet of your house is not an empty one
but one which is waiting, leaden and strange,
I suggest, dear reader, that you leave.
Do not peer into the corner.
Do not shake your head and convince yourself
that all is as it should be.
For the shadows which watch are the shadows which ****.
And tonight, you have every chance of finding one.

her soul
never at peace
in the city where noise
does not cease

there is forgiveness in the mornings,
before the daylight breaks,
before the shadows - grays and blues -
are lightly kissed awake.

there is forgiveness in the mornings,
within my heart and mind,
which still so gently clasp at sleep,
my thoughts still undefined.

there is forgiveness in the mornings,
when all is still and right,
for those of us who'd found no peace,
and had pleaded with the night.

She doesn't want people around.
But she let you in.
Is that not enough?

sunshine filters through emerald leaves.
her body, a golden dune.
warmth melts through her skin.
her chest, rising and falling
with the passing day.
she expands and dissolves into infinity.

softly, she weeps
warm tears falling,
tracing her contours.
a breeze, so soft,
moves through her.
it's silent tonight,
and so is she.

tendrils of green,
sway above her.
a dance of despair,
of solace and sadness.
and she joins
and moves with the wind.

she thinks and she thinks,
of ephemeral air.
how it stirs and caresses,
then dissipates and departs,
only to sweep across mountains and valleys.

she wishes to be,
no more than a breeze.
gentle but strong,
to be felt by all yet seen by none.

the willow above,
with its weeping green,
grazes her cheeks,
and beckons her gently
to join with those currents,
in their invisible journey.

and so her body fades,
and she leans to the tree,
the drapery of leaves
enfolding her like a lover.

if one were to glance
at the willow tree,
they would see a girl no longer there
would see only tendrils of green,
swaying in the wake of some wind.

in her place,
there is now a silent emptiness.
and the willow still weeps
with joy for her freedom,
in despair that she's gone.

within a dark wood, no sound could be heard,
no rustle or leaf, nor chorus of bird.
though through thickets of thorn, and tangle of vine,
a traveller long lost, settled down by a pine.

it was then that the trees, and brambles beneath,
twisted their branches and made him his wreath.
a crown of late thorns, to place on his head,
by the exact moment, in which he was dead.

the traveller had wandered, for days through this grove,
mistook it for where there'd been buried a trove.
many had done so, the young and the old,
naïve in their search, for fairy-tale gold.

asleep on the fallen, both leaves and past men,
our traveller breathed once, then no more than ten.
his lungs filled with scarlet, his blood running thick,
from poisons and toxins of berries he'd picked.

as night came to banish, the warmth of the sun,
his corpse slowly stiffened, decay then begun.
what of his soul, his spirit, you wonder?
encased by his bones, shall never float yonder.

no other remembers, this story I've told,
long lost in myth and legends of old.
his death was not pleasant, nor lacking in strife,
it felt oh so sweet, to steal that man's life.

for I was the wood, that he'd set eyes upon,
to plunder and pillage, and lay his hands on.
but blind from desire, for coffers of gold,
the man did not witness, his follies unfold.

my treasure's not buried, but strewn all around,
if only one glances, to see nature abound.
the man had such fortune, in the palm of his hand,
but thought nothing of it, of cherished wood-land.

although he still lies here, enveloped in moss,
his death is not tragic, don't mourn for this loss.
a traveller he was, perhaps you are too,
but his soul was crook'd, his values askew.

oh yes he was selfish, and now he is mine,
his body 's held tight, for my roots to enshrine.
the lesson dear reader, I ask you to heed,
is that misfortune awaits, all men filled with greed.