Man’s origin, man’s destiny
Slipping into darkness–
Misery;
Cost–
Dead connection.
The Angel of Death;
A welcome grave.

No comebacks.

The sunken island stretches far behind;
Upon this makeshift vessel out at sea—
Running. Running from home to be free.

How droll to be running from home,
From faces I love, whom at first seemed so kind.
But love cannot thrive where one is alone.
Forced into rituals absurd, ha!
I’d have died a thousand deaths before,
For my heart has always desired different,
As these waves that flow against the current—
Not the smoothest road taken,
But one that nonetheless reaches an end.

The Sapphire Dome fades into the distance:
I shall miss its faint glimmer,
As it flows into the Sunken City;
The sight of the sun as the sky grows dimmer.
But the people may live as they would,
In the shells of their minds—
Afraid of change and aught remotely close—
Forcing ritual upon ritual
On each child that longs to be free.

Through the mist, the island Omninada,
Trees bordering its mountains grand
And white smoke wafting from its sand.
I clasp the chartreuse dagger on my side,
The only friend I’ve known.
A new land and a new life—
A new name I’ll of course condone.
A boy of mine own fragile stature
Requires quite an entrance . . .

A vicious gust of wind befalls the boat!
Beyond the spumes of brine,
An eddy I see forms beneath,
And I am hanging for my life and dagger.

The precious metal flies
And I am ****** into the water’s depths.
Eyes of brilliant em’rald meet my own
Before I fall into immediate slumber.

You will not hear the ticking clock,
For hath the phantom hour loom—
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.

I hear the vi’lent click. A lock.
All sounds succumb to the raucous boom.
You will not hear the ticking clock.

The shadows one cannot outwalk—
In fear and gloom, they loom and bloom,
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.

Where yon might lie in satin frock,
In barren and desolate room—
You will not hear the ticking clock.

The raven squawks its final squawk,
And falls to the ground—we presume—
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.

Run from Death—to hills and boondocks—
He’ll find you in the spumes and flumes!
You will not hear the ticking clock.
As his frigid hands stir and flock.

Air, seething beneath, knocks on earthen doors,
Leaves rustling above, where once she had danced.
Not hint of regret, not pang of remorse—
She kicks and she undulates to survive.

Air, seething beneath, remembers—
Joys. Pains.
Earthly chains attached to her arms—
Sharp. Cold.

Air, seething beneath,
Flies toward the sky . . .

Only to be sealed.

Air, seething beneath, becomes cold—
Forgets to fight, forgets to breathe.

Air suffocates—
Crumbles.
Withers.

Slumbers.
Bemoans.

Concedes.

Di­es.

The clouds make haste for the dark moon,
As it climbs over fire and rook
In a town that shall slumber soon,
For solace by a jester long betook.
A boy at a corner rough-hewn
Laughs and cries and dances alone.

The clouds make haste for the dark moon,
Past the mirror, sees the boy now grown.
Naked and loved in winter’s June—
But solace by a jester long betook,
Lest the seams of Fate now lie sown,
As soul and heart hang by the hook.

For solace by a jester long betook—
The clouds make haste for the dark moon.