I am no poet nor elysian saint.
I am nothing more than a
living record of transgressions:
odes and testaments of
tarnished gold intentions.

it is for naught: sincere
folly to search for an
elusive inner meaning.
I cannot ascertain if
any exist. take heed to
proceed with caution

there are years which
answer; providing insight,
clarity, a gateway to serenity.

yet there are the years
yielding naught but
empty questions

   e  
  c 
    h
    o  
   i    
n  
   g

soundlessly across
the starless horizon.

these hands are riddled
with memories of all
that I burnt, broke
and dismantled.

scorch marks
embellish my skin:
lamenting cries tasting
of ashes and insidious intent.

whenever home is no longer
hospitable; the foundation
crumbling under derelict
decay and dilapidated
compassion. empathy
common sense.
boundaries.

where does one begin
unravelling the shards of
broken bonds, presuming
to eradicate the distorted
fragments of fermented
claws, kisses, and teeth?

I am a storm with skin:
volatile, tempestuous,
forever untamed by
human hands.

do not misinterpret
the agelessness of
my Soul as a catalyst
for destruction.
chaos is no longer the
joy in my heart.