I want to get to know him
or at least explore
what it could lead to
but I'm afraid
hindered by the past
being in love with the idea
my illusions.

Casted shadows upon the faces in the room.
Dim Lights flickering from the smoldering logs.
Smoke lurching from the broken panes of glass.
A thin blanket of smoke hangs in the still air.
Gathered thoughts spitting out like a newspaper press, weird and deranged ideas lighting up like a pinball machine.
A humorous smirk while the tension runs high.
A  conscious realm of telepathic visions.
Slicing through this blanket of smoke with an invisible knife.
Can you hear the cat meowing in the distance?  
It's left unseen in the wicked darkness.
The creatures of the night disappear at the rise of dawn, only to hide until The next blood moon spills again.

Do you know
The shape of the my mind
The glimpses I catch
Give me a fright
Pretty please tell me
What do you see?
Are the images less frightening
Than I've known them to be

How do I put it together
How does the baggage become the feather
The philosophy tells me
What Will be will be
And acceptance of the facts is the way to be free
Free of expectations
And the following disappointment
An accidental acquisition easily defeated by intention

Stranger clouds travelled,
Above her
Furious but imaginable thoughts,
Wandered beside her
Are the naked trees friendly?
Or dead?
Inside her, she felt the same

How could a phoenix rise,
from the ashes?
She let a sigh, and wondered
Will ever the birds sing?
Or the same will remain?
As the crows cried
Inside her
What could possibly be the matter?
She arose from the shadows
Could she still remain in the light?
When the darkness creeped through her,
She screamed silently
And violently
Desperate for a healthy love

I go through my playlist,
looking for all the songs
that like-crazed people
have written for me and
for lonely nights as these.
This voice of stranger that sings my pain
takes me back to this same bed
and same sorrow
somewhere in the past that I want to loose.
Someone sits beside me yet again.
And this weight
is as frightening
as comforting.
To know that the spirits of the nights
that I have killed
are again here,
to take away a friend of theirs.

On nights like these,
I prefer the company
of sad cries that people call songs,
of walking memories that people call ghost.