The Moon hung low in the sky
like the tarnished reflection
of my soul on that night .
☆
A night spent rambling
down lonely streets of
derelict dream houses ,
with forbidding peaked
rooves ,
stretching high into the
gloomy dark like knives .
☆
Now and then ,
a sound made by something unknown ,
would drift on the dank air
or round some
threatening corner .
☆
Was there faint stirring
of grey curtain in a window ,
☆
A muffled cry behind
peeling paint of bolted door ,
☆
A soft voice sighing ,
straining against the wind to be heard ,
☆
But then , no-one was there .

When dreams make the
shadow of their evil real ,
then walk the sodden path
of forgetfulness .
☆
Forgetting of all life , love
and tenderness of human
touch .
☆
Vanquished , youth's idyll
lay bound in silken chains of regret .
Blinded eyes plucked out ,
lay on a silver tray at his
side .
☆
Discarded and unloved .
☆
Like a meagre meal
in poverty's room ,
the soul is dissected and
eaten piecemeal by devils .
☆
While in dead of night
or blazing sun of noon ,
the stench of rotting dreams
shrouds Eternity over those deadened eyes .

Alone

It Feels More Than It Really Is,

Desolate abandoment
The void left by, taught through
The faces I would turn towards
And truest love I knew;

Yet away from me, unhappily
Or indifferent, themselves have turned
Fixed, never to meet within my gaze
My life or their cautionary tale, decerned

Falling in love with many a friend
From very early on
Where nothing matters like they do,
No matter that they've gone.

No matter that the majority
And best parts of our live's real years,
Are spent relapsing in their memory,
As their aura disappears.

It Really Is More Than It Feels

Alone

Voices in the dark
like Spring-heeled Jacks ,
run down a grimy slate roof
into a filthy gutter
filled with the tears of Saint Sophia .
☆
Dust , dirt , insects
and the remains of dead
forget-me-nots ,
the only images left to
a diseased mind .
☆
They run over and over
in geometric perfection ,
☆
a cataclysm of holes .
☆
☆
☆
                       2
No light for his lantern ,
hope forsaken gloom ,
then run down
tormented avenues
to an empty field ,
under the moon of
Mars in September  .
☆
Under blood red stars ,
without truth or meaning ,
the tower of his wasted
dreams ,
and the chimeras of his
past ,
gather now around
and begin casting lots .

Oh, how i think living is such a terrible tragedy
Falling and faltering while you cradle me in your arms
My skin burns where we touch and connect
I can feel this agony
I can feel myself writhe in pain when you hold me
Nothing but comforting touches and platonic affection
Yet i still burn with discomfort

What is this great calamity
What is this god if not my captor
My religion must be you they tell me
But i am still falling and faltering
And burning in this torment
If i push you out of my mind
And ignore the words of my peers
Will I find peace?
Or will I still live in this never ending desolation

In somber atrophy
Stale breath beckons truth

The heart dwindled
I choke on your words

The skylight tints the afternoon grey
And some dull, dusty oranges
Perhaps there's fire, somewhere far away
Somewhere far beyond the creaking shelves
The time-varnished brown, rusty door hinges

The air is thicker than the oldest tomes
Sticky as the darkest aisle
Where long-dead spiders once made their homes
Minds caught in paper, minds caught in webs
I think, if I think, I'll sleep for awhile