We drove with the music off and the windows down
Whispers of fall crept into the car and the sound of the pavement rushing under the tires murmured in the background
Our minds were buzzing with nicotine and wonder as we ventured into one another's intricate networks of thoughts
We became closer to escaping our own minds as we became lost in each other's
You began to read your poetry and I watched you in my rear view mirror as you read
You read with such passion and listening to you, with the murmur of the pavement, the music off, and the cool air tossing about the wisps of hair that had escaped the confines of my braid
I felt peaceful

Unholy thoughts pillage
a guarded home.
When darkness unfolds
I rely on stars unknown.

Hate and apathy
linger around
the shackles of virtue
have had me bound.

When motives are questioned
and morals are forgotten
A soul that doesn't flinch
is a soul that is rotten.

Teachings are taught
but not to be learned from
and ignorance is the fuel
that carnage burned on.

Tungsten skies drenched
in morbid horror.
They've fore seen my
devotion fall out of order.

A thousand years in waiting
A thousand still left
A past full of turmoil leading
to a future of unrest.

In an era of dysfunction
a rebel I came to be
revolution, rebellion
its all the same to me.

An image painted on a canvas
For the whole world to see
Is the image what they notice
Or is it what truly lies beneath
On the outside there's beauty
Radiating a hint of happiness
Filled with life and enthusiasm
Enjoyed by all who see, or notice
The hands that created this masterpiece
Must have been solid, and stern
For the wall that holds this canvas
Has a black lining the eyes can't see
Bitterness, shallow, and heartless
Covered with a coating of gold
To the human eye to seem like perfection
For there is no happiness within
An abundance of repentance
that grows under this image,
stretching high up along the walls
The image of everlasting beauty
Trees swaying in the background
Beautiful flowers blooming abundantly
The sun shining as though just ripened
Birds soaring through the air,
chirping this magical, mystical morning
Dew lying upon the image
leaving a sparkle to catch the eye
The image seen as it is wanted to be seen
Painted from the mind of someone
needing perfection taking nothing less
Knowing you can't cut a stone with scissors
Or fly like a bird without wings
You can't even create perfection
When there is no such a thing.
Minus all the beauty that this image holds
Would your attention be captured the same
If by fascination you could see with it
Without it what would you see
A canvas hanging on a wall alone
No beauty within or without
Black walls that line the canvas, no image
Empty, rebellious, alone
Fascination is taken away by reality
Once the image becomes clear it is no longer
an image, nor perfection you see
Though now noticeable the canvas
rests on the wall that is lined in black
Plain as the sky on a glorious day
The canvas holds no image of beauty
No image of any kind
It was merely what someone wanted you to see
Hoping that in reality the image
would always be there, stay the same
Beautiful, happy, loving
Speaking a thousand words just
from what your mind captured
It is now faint to the eyes, clear
That this canvas is nothing more
than a dishonest piece of work.

All defined, labeled, identified.
like quiet children who stand aside,
                                                    Silent as a dusty book,
Captivated by their own shoes,
must be pardoned, must be excused.
Those who mumble and avoid your eyes,
they do not mind, they’re just shy.

Imagine if everything still and reserved
Were undermined by such a word.
What would we say of those calm characters
mountains, towers, poetry, flowers?
If perchance one afternoon we met the horizon or the moon,
Are we to say that because often they stand away,
Afar in photos, landscapes, scenery,
off center, silent, beyond the sea,
That these defining features of the sky
Should be cast off and labeled shy?

Those amongst us, who silently
Live largely in their reverie,
Hiding behind their books and journals,
Heard not, but for the scratch of their pencils,
Will name you someday;
They'll have something undeniably brilliant to say.
Should you disagree, consider and think,
Violent, boisterous thunder is the voice of silent-seeming lightning.

Time does not move when watched.
It slinks through the shadows,
preying on our distracted minds,
a subtle movement at the eye's corner.
It is deceitful. Duplicitous.
Dim.
Attached to our hips; Pan's shadow;
unthinking and cruel;
a quantum paradox of certainty,
linked to a count running
silently, sub-consciously.

Assuming, of course, you can count.

In darkness I stand
Into lightlessness I dip my hands

My eyes glow from lies contained
My hands twirl a blade sharpened truth

Sliding the dagger across fragile skin
Feeling my life pour out from within

My life separates into separate strands
Blue, Red, Silver, Black

Blue for emotions frozen into ice
Red for love I cannot make disappear

Silver for a God that should not care
Black for my soul that houses nothing good

They coil around me
Surround me in light

Flicker
And go out

Course ropes of darkness surround me
Mockeries of what was inside me

They pull themselves around my throat
Bind my hands, legs, and feet

Tipped by a gust of silent laughter
I crash to the ground

The earth slowly consumes me
Pulling me into an unmarked grave

Though long before I am brought to suffocate below
The cords around my neck remove me from consciousness

There can be no awaking
Already dead and brought within a dream was I

Where am I to go?
When after life all I am able to do is die into another night.