Today I caught myself watching the clock, tirelessly counting
seconds, minutes, and moments; for in that short time it was clear,
I am here.
But how much of me?
The blood coursing through my veins, feeding my flesh,
feels thick and real; but is it just a projection, my perception
of BEING?
Could it be that my outward senses are nothing more than
a coping mechanism, a tether if you will,
meant to keep my mind still and my body grounded?
When released from my dermal prison, will my consciousness escape me,
or will it rise up free with no boundary?

Perhaps we are sturdy and real, something I can feel,
something to grasp.
Or, perchance, we’re merely a cloud of energized matter, buzzing madly
through time and through space.
An imaginary face, nothing more.
Although the latter leaves a bittersweet taste on my fictitious tongue,
now to me it is clear. This isn’t so much a poem about
Clarity,
as it is a poem about questions.
Question.
Because if the cold ceased to bite, and the bee never stung,
would I be someTHING, or would I be someONE?

I watched as those that reflected on the
darkness, thinking I was about to be
obscured within oblivion, but can you
keep a secret that no one knows?

"I was on the dark side of your dream,

Oblivion is a black hole within me...
I absorbed the light, not only that
but the obscurity of light is alive!
Within me... see my shadow in the dark places...

They thought that it was shade,
but shadows move? Have you ever noticed that?
I weave within luminosity but feed upon you
when it lingers in hibernation.

Radiance is a puppet of oblivion, we let it linger,
have its say, make it feel that there is nothing
without darkness. But have you ever suffocated
light? It’s simple, turn it off and what, oblivion.

I let it have its motions, thinking it takes a stand.
But all light fades, and then there is only me.
I'm not inanimate, I'm consciousness and I'm
looking at you in the light, oblivion smiles.....

We waste each other's day
Waiting around until there
Is no more time to ****,
Praying or just hoping
For something better
To come along

Just bite the bullet...
I'll know better than to try
Next time, don't bother

I do not enjoy
your anesthetized
clean pictures
of the Victorian past
with your fantasies
about nobility
and high society.

The truth is *****.
The people were poor,
and the poetry spoke truth.

It did not cover up such pains,
but placed them on display
in word play
to say,
“We are human and we are here.”

Waiting in warm rain
Light streaks through humid skies and
Shivers down my skin