You ask me what is wrong,
When you see the explosions behind my eyes,
Staring out at a landscape that's not there.
Hearing gunshots that aren't there,
And screams of men long dead.

I brush it off sometimes,
Coming to,
Seeing the concern in your expression,
And I know that I can't lie,
But sometimes it's just too much for me to tell you,
Some things just too painful to share.

Some of it is to protect you,
Some of it is to protect me,
From that awful time in that awful place,
Where peace was so hard to find,
And impossible to see.

Sometimes I can tell you parts,
The parts you could understand,
But others wouldn't make sense to those who weren't there,
Like getting anxiety of having to get into a 110 degree porta-john to ***.

As we grow up,
we become less afraid
of being haunted
and more afraid
of being heart broken.
©

You won’t see me when I enter. The crystals of glass
gliding past as I ride a sliver of moon glow

through your window and crumple to your floor.
You won’t see me when I rise and survey

the scene. A foreign body by your side. Books you’ll never
read. I slip a gossamer thumb into your slumbered

mind. Let me finger through your dreams. Taste you
from the inside. I’m not sure why I chose to arrive. But I’ll move

an object enough to leave a mark. And now, like before. You won’t
see me. I leave quietly in the night. The last thing you’d want

is an encore.

Lighthouse cloaked in wavelike fog
which drifts like a silver procession
through the ferns and evergreens.

Spectral rivers of autumn leaves
spiral across the rocks.

Phantoms of white, smoky halos
tremble through a willow
dancing in holy midnight.

Lindworm draped by blackened seas
brewing thunder and hurricanes
to batter the haggard land.

I am at a crescendo of this mercurially
fervent woe, maimed by the visage of
smoke and mirrors;
"a death in chrysalis is to live once again."

Draping into the worn out disheveled
silk, beautifully withered
lulled by the sound of riverbanks
as if it's pacifying the feral.

A star-lit eyes deluged with bliss
rose with thorn-teared flesh
overwhelmed by a mawkish melancholia. Although we were haunted by our old love, it will never be the same.