Doing a dance,
to wear a mask,
To play a game that you can’t stomach . . .
Just so that the truth doesn’t have to face you,
The way you recoil from reflections of yourself.

You’d forsake your happiness, your health —
                                                  You would burn it all.

To do a dance,
To wear a mask
To play a game you’ll always lose.
             To look in a mirror . . .
             To tell an image, that it’s anything but you.

And it is in that moment, that you'll find
                           You’ll tell the unfamiliar truth
As you bleed and feed
                           Your own obliterated youth . . .

To feel, and then
                          to lose —
Just like the loss you always knew

                          You would find in disappointment.
Like an unholy anointment
                          of your least desirable possessions
That retire from the heavens
                          Back to you.


To betray, and to amuse
                                                          A­lone.
The ides of irony rejoice!
               For they’ve found their lamb... or
their ever-dying muse.
                 Forsaking life itself, you clamor
To see others just like you.

And maybe, one day, one will choose
           the path that you can’t leave,
As it reciprocates to thee —
            Two partners in misery, fated to excuse
the waste of each other...
            until they find there’s nothing left.

To feel the flame within its breath consumed.

Wearing a mask,
To live a lie,
                And die a death,
                Whose dance you six-times misstep


                              And on the seventh, betrays you.
​

"A blue and gold mistake",
Wrote Emily from inside her room,
A self-inflicted tomb,
About a path she could not take,
Into the month of June.

Let others stroll beneath its cerulean sky
And thank the sward, on which they lie,
A lunging into voluptuous play,
Yet blinded to the rushing by
Of sultry month and jovial day.

Did the poet’s being kept apart
From worldly joys well-made,
Or from crystal pools and glaucous glades,
From brilliant sun that fashions shade,
Embitter her admiring heart
To look askance at anything that fades?

Did she not care that
One month, though doomed to end,
Was also made to reappear
After the long march of winter’s year
As the sun came round again,
To loose us from our unlocked pens?

Pink hyacinth blooms,
atop floating green leaves,
the dark green bullfrog sits idly,
occasionally announcing his presence.

Fullmoon light illuminates,
the blue water pond imitates
a giant silver mirror,
reflecting the sky.

A single disturbance,
created by a drinking damselfly,
ripples the night's reflection,
like paradoxes through time.

I sit and watch being still,
until the hum approaches,
I have been found by the mosquitos,
time to retreat.

Upon the wind
I will ride,
my sails I'll tend,
against the changing tide.

I'll never break,
though I may bend,
this claim I'll stake,
until the end.

This fight I'll fight,
though I will lose,
with all my might,
I'll find the clues.

The ones that teach
how to truly be,
within our reach,
we can be happy.

I survived the ferryman,
swindled him out of the ride,
I simply used against him,
his own ego and his pride.

Upon this island now,
I see a lighthouse standing,
the keeper is inside,
I hear is quite demanding.

Though his house is unsturdy,
it's foundation made of chalk,
he sways with the waves,
impressive is his walk.

Pegasus waits patiently
on the swaying deck,
the waves begin to build,
the lighthouse they will wreck.

I climb the stairs and see the man,
waiting there for me,
dressed in robes and sandals,
quite a sight to see.

He says come with me,
and mounts the horse,
his wings spread out wide,
the lighthouse begins to crumble
but I decline to ride.

I jump into the air,
expecting to drown and die,
but I'm given no choice,
as dangling, I now fly.

A strong hand grips my collar,
as the water and land, slide by below,
I ask where we are going,
he says no need to know.

What was that, I heard her say,
in the darkness of the night,
I say it was simply night whispers,
inspiring dreams of fright.

Do not strain to hear,
what they have to say,
if you finally understand,
in your dreams, you'll have to pay.

The monsters mumble purposely,
like the piper plays a tune,
you try to hear and decipher,
like an archeologist and a rune.

But its a trap, I'm telling you,
those hushed words filled with sin,
the more and more you listen,
ensure that they will win.

So roll over and go to sleep,
no need to pray for your soul,
if you just ignore them,
you will prevent their goal.