Incapable d'agir. De quoi parlent-ils tous?
Est-ce encore un livre, la perte de ses pages?
Où que l'on creuse, là n'est pas la source;
Déduira-t-on ainsi qu'elle est introuvable?

Écoutant les murmures au travers du ciment
Encore qui mugissent des propos absurdes;
Puis d'une jointure, l’on cognera dedans:
« Encore et toujours vide, l'écho ridicule. »

Criant au secours, qu'on leur vienne en aide;
Celui de tout perdre, connait-on le sacrifice?
C'est donnant ainsi tout qu'enfin l'on nous cède
Le vrai pour et contre l'artifice.

Incapable d'agir. Que racontent-ils donc?
Lorsqu'ouvrir la bouche est un pas de trop,
À la course ils se ruent vers les fronts:
« Cette inertie qui maintient en sursaut. »

En ouverture vers le vide, voici le message
Des parois décousues d'un fort abyssal:
« Écouter le silence, le silence qui n'entend rien. »

I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.

a bucket full of withered roses
two repeated sentences —
both still lingered in the room

Echo repeating:
he loves me
he loves me not

she was not heard
another unrequited love
in the midst of a stillness

Daffodil, daffodil, can’t you see?
I love you sweet flower,
But you don’t love me.
You know me not, so I suppose,
I am but a mirror,
Blank as shadows.

Without people I am mute,
Mere consciousness,
A playerless lute.
Around too many others
I am a scramble,
Their presence smothers.

Daffodil, daffodil, look not listen,
I am a poor imitation
But my eyes, they glisten.
I am nothing at all of my own:
Composed of distant fragments,
Patchwork of all I’ve known.

I have nothing you could call a true voice;
The words that I speak
Are not mine of choice.
I love you, I love you,
I can never say,
Unless you do too.

I felt *****,
        worm down.
        but I stepped into the rain.


Every droplet had a meaning,
                 erasing, cleansing
moments that clung onto me.

Some were easy to dislodge,
              washing away before me.

Others were like soot, coalmine
                                                deep.

Only the deluge before the pause,
                                  awoke my life.

Something's never really clean away,
           but are dulled, only to await

the next deluge to cleanse me
                     that little bit more.

they push and push and push you
until you wonder where the light is,
if there's an end in sight,
if you should create that ending.
you're tired of wearing yourself thin,
of sacrificing your health for others,
of not being able to breathe.

when the madness echoes
from the walls of your mind,
you extend your hand for help.
you may think you're alone,
but you'll feel another hand in yours.
they'll help you find your way,
and you'll be okay.

From one
Many will come.
Like an echo
Continued in time;
Unique in their likeness
Universally the same;
Standing together, alone
Waving in unison,
As flags at the sun.
Life and colour
Is all they have,
That they share.