By chance found again:

the butterfly box, the pins --


in circles of dust.

I said what I thought

I knew about dust, that it --


does not turn to dust.

When I pick up my pen
        She comes first.
When I land on the dust
         I am a stranger!

We kept waiting...

Exhausted
Another treatment, another doctor, another realization
More medication, more promises, there is no solution
You still can't shed your scales, your scars, your skin
No more pain

...guess I was hoping...

I don't want to be drunk while I'm loving you
I'll lose myself when I lose you
Twenty thousand leagues within
the city of Angels that was supposed to save you

...but in the end...

We are bathed
In golden rays
And my fingertips heal the shadows on your face
We'll share tangerines and the rest of these drowsy days
In white rooms where weathered vinyl tiles echo like a knife on a bottle

...there was nothing left to do...

I pour my love over your grave
And I wait for the wind to rise
I alway thought my soul was a crystal to be shattered
But it's dust to be scattered throughout the cosmos
Don't wait for me
I sit with the mourning waiting for the morning
To rise for a new day
But it never comes
It's just another day

...my faith has fallen...

What a beautiful age you were

We are poor creatures
slimy organs imprisoned in flesh.
The sun burns us, water drowns us
our lives are rough and short,
we’re little more than talking dust.

We all howl with angry doubts.

Our art may dry and chip
our science could let us down,
our poets stammer and grow quiet.

Humanity has always been imperfect,
but some of us are trying. We see the stars,
we know passion, we sing and dance
and are indomitable - join us-
because the best is yet to come

it's dusty, i swipe grime off my skin
my memories piled up in stacks of
knick-knacks, yellowed notebook pages,
and drawings from when i was twelve
i haven't cleaned my room in a year
too scared, anxious
to touch anything
the fear of breaking my fragile sense of identity
that i've clung to

it's desperate, lonely
sleeping in a dusty room

i wipe the sweat from my forehead
cobwebs weave through my strands
clinging in clumps as i
rummage through my belongings

i hadn't seen these things in a while
remnants of when i was
happier, even though i said i wasn't

i'm a year older again
and soon i will be years and years older
and i will leave this room behind

for now,
as i stay for
a little bit longer
let me revert back into
the child i was.

The prelate opens

the ancient reliquary:


holy is the dust.