You are beautiful.
I stare into you
allowing myself to fall
diving deep into those dark pools
burrowing fast between your ears
so that all you hear is my voice
that all you see with closed eyes is the imprint of my face
and with each breath you take
you smell and almost taste me.

Born from death, he breathed his first.
Seventy-five years locked in the good night.

The memories of his past life flittered
past him
as he clawed his way through his grave.

First his hand touched the sweet air,
the wind dancing between his fingers.
He could feel his dusted veins flow
with the blood from his now beating heart.

His skin in places had rotted away
and he,
like the living dead
walked again on the earth
that he was never meant to tread upon again.

He stumbled into a small chapel
by the old graveyard
now over grown with wild flowers and pine saplings.

Walking in he saw people;
for the first time in years his dried eyes,
nothing but prunes in their sockets,
moistened and began to fill out.

His vision became clearer as he dragged himself along.

What a miracle this was, he thought to himself.

He was awed by the sights he saw around him.
The play of the sun
as it filtered through the stained glass windows
touched his heart so
that in that moment
he thought he would collapse into himself.

Was this truly real,
or was it simply another trick
played upon his imagination
as it often times did during his eternal sleep.

But it couldn’t be, could it?

Was this fantastical phenomenon happening
to him
or was it simply that he,
Andrew Taylor
had in fact defied the laws of nautre.

Again he took another step
and felt no qualms or aches of soul
while the people shied away from him
thinking him to probably have leprosy!

The very idea made him laugh,
the crackling sound
that voiced from his hole ridden lungs
surprised him and terrified them.

What a day this was.
What a life he would live.

He would see things,
know the sweet flavor
and exquisite touch of a woman again

as he felt his body filling out,
his hair growing to that same thick luster
that it was before he was twenty five.

The decay melted away
revealing new skin,
as a child would have.

The feeling of ecstasy humbled him
to his knees as he felt to pressure
of a heart and a stomach
of even his spleen that he could barely look
towards the hallowed altar
without giving praise and thanks giving
at another chance to relive his meager life.

He closed his eyes for an instant
and opening them again he saw the top of a coffin.
The satin lining that he knew so well,
the holes
and even the sprinkling of dirt
that showered between the cracks as people walked overhead.

His eyes yielded no tears.
It was a dream.
Like so many he has had before.

“*******.” He murmured a cloud of escaping his decomposed lips

He closed his eyes again
and slipped into that world
that was his second life
until the final Day of Judgment.

Everyone thinks there's something.
Everyone believes that the gods know them personally,
sympathies with them on a minuscule level.

I like to pull people out from there delusions
as I reap them out from this world
making sure to let them know

if there are gods they’re not going to save you.

I have the power to take you in any fashion,
your name was marked and so you go

I never know who goes where and honestly I don’t care.

Those at peace melt away
like liquid sugar on the tongue
they are absorbed into the air
sinking like honey into bread,

and others that fight me
shatter like glass.
They're ground into nonexistance,

Poor *******.

I cry a silent cry of anguish
I'm never relieved through tears.
Instead the agony drops into my heart
forming an ocean vast.

Too vast.

The struggle against suffering is for the healthy,
and those who dive into that pool let themselves drown,
swallowing pain,
memories,
and disappointment
until their lungs are too full.

When they open their mouths
sending out their final battle cry against life
their own voice is strewn with the voices of many,
the voice of all others before them who have chosen this path of destruction.

Only the first to enter had the privilege
to let their voice be heard in that last and final scream
as they sank down into the darkness
lost forever from life
and even eluding me.

They were in a place where no man wishes to go,
where fate has no hold
and death and life quiver before the decimation
that awaits the two biggest killers of mankind.

All are accepted into that bleak and glorious place,
and those who do not
receive their penance
while others are forced through their own will
to take upon themselves the responsibility
to inflict horrors to their body,
spirit and soul.

Those who start on their own path of death
with his assistance
experience something much worse
than what I would have devised for you,

we are ourselves the worst of enemies.

This is one of those love poems
That young lovers tend to write
When they find that special someone
They think about morning, noon, and night

When the dull world that they once knew
Shines a brighter shade
Like any other love poem that you've read
On any other given day

It talks about when the one you love
Turns around and smiles
How with the kiss of wind the clouds disappear
And the sun comes shining out

Filled with a sugary sweetness
That drips from off the page
Though you've heard this in every love poem before
It still has the need to say

There's an essence to your beauty
How life sparkles when you smile
The way it is I feel for you
Is what this poem is all about

And though it's all been said before
In many poems up to this day
Thought I'd go ahead and take this chance
To say it any way

There is a bit of difference
And the evidence does hold true
This poem your holding in your hands
Was written especially for you

I hear the crows outside.
The signals of death despair and ******.
The very signs indeed that something has gone a foul
and that they,
whether from heaven or hell,
are here to leave no trace of the carcass no matter what it is.

They follow wherever I go.
Being who I am
I have no life,
no beating heart,
nor flowing blood.

But then again...
I am the bringer of death.

But where did it all start.
When did I develop this insatiable urge
-NO! -
Need to ****.

When was it that the gods decided
that I was to be punished
with this heavy task of taking
from one what I cherish above all things?

I am not sure. But a monster in the truest sense I am.

I relish in my grave burden.
The feeling of death (of me!)
as it steals over the eyes of my victim
sends a warm chill through me.
The feeling of total *******…

I have searched like many others for the meaning of life.
Like a blind man searching for his own sight
I come up futile
in my vain attempts to find the meaning
of what it means to live.

How can one find something so conflicting to what they are?
Against my nature it is to want life.
What has become of me, that being death I seek life and love?

It was cold.
I remember the cold.
The very smell of the air
as I breathed in and out
so slowly
made me to once again relive the feeling
of frost coating my lungs.

I held it there,
keeping the fresh air
within me
until it became stagnant.

It descended on me,
covering my whole body in a grip so soft,
too impassive to be called violent.

But it was anything but.

I can only describe what I felt with a metaphor.
A metaphor that feels so real
I could have sworn,
even now,
that it was truly happening,
the plunge of needles into each pore,
between each crevice of folded skin,
in my eyes and ears, numbing all my senses.

I wonder if that’s what death makes others feel.
Is that what others feel when I come near,
can they sense the imminent inevitability of their end?