As it began,
The great blank expanse sprang in efflorescence
Inscrutable thaumaturgy of color and light
Baffled and bewildered by bioluminescent marbles
As they circled ‘round the brightest numen
How are we not constantly amazed to grace the great maze
Of this wondrous arcane apotheosis?

We are but dust of its great purpose
Transmute in ever sibylline change
Palimpsest clay in ethereal hands,
We too circle the Lucent arcane.
Oblivious of our infancy
Ornate in our chrysalis
The temporal larva becomes the moth
Chasing the numinous flame,

Returned to dust,
Among the rest
To which we came,
From the celestial ephemera
Back to the flesh
Our vessels are a temple transcendent

We are all children of the stars

I don’t consider myself a cynic,
But I am not fooled by good intentions,
People lie,
All the time.
Is it purely for self-interest?
Does any good come from their interventions?
Who am I to say?
Each person has their own belief,
On the selfishness,
Of humanity.
I’d like to believe,
That there’s goodness around,
You may have to squint,
But I’m certain it can be found.
Isn’t it a depressing point of view,
To say that everyone is selfish,
And nobody cares about you?
I’m not overly optimistic,
Nor excessively pessimistic,
I don’t believe that I’m a cynic,
I walk the middle line,
Filled with nuance,
And confusion,
All of the time.

The day fell like a crumpled note,
tossed into the wastebasket of time,
a whisper, a cough, a footstep fading,
the sound of nothing,
the echo of things left unsaid.

I walked through streets without pavement,
over stones that remembered me not.
Each window was an eye, unblinking,
a stare of glass indifferent to grief.

The wind pressed against my cheek,
not a caress, not a blow,
just a presence,
like the weight of a name no longer called.

I did not weep, though my heart did,
a different kind of pain,
a betrayal of the body's rituals.

Tears demand permission,
but silence sneaks in, unbidden,
settles between the ribs,
lodges behind the throat,
a ghost pressing against the edges of breath.

And so the hours unravelled,
like a frayed sleeve in a forgotten coat,
threadbare, loose at the seams,
and still I walked,
searching for the shape of sorrow,
in the absence of rain.

Night came in its sensible shoes,
soft-footed, practical, gray.
No stars, no moon,
only the hum of a world
that did not know I was breaking.

I sat on the edge of the bed,
hands resting like relics on my knees.
And the heart wept again,
as it always does,
quietly,
where no one can see.

There is comfort to be found in our dearth of unique experiences.

This broken heart has been reforged by softer souls.
This lesson has been learned by crueler minds.
This victory has been shared by worthier hands.
This shame has been loved by greater kinds.

It has been done before.
It can be done again.

We will not die.

I found today
I scraped my knee--
Hadn't realized it had
started to bleed--
The cut was shallow but the
blood flowed slick,
and stained the shade
of my lipstick.

I try my best,
It's all we can do,
Messy as being a
Human is,
We all have faults--
We all have sins.

The song of laughter
Brings us in,
The tears of loss
cement us--
and it's all the
strangeness
weirdness
quiet
In between
that makes us
whole
Makes us
Seen.

I see you.
I see it in you.
The beauty and
the heartache. The mess
and the intention,
The skill and the folly,
The breakdown and the
Refinishing.
I see it in you.

People can be pure,
They can be kind,
Or narcissistic,
And blind,
To pain,
And strife.
They can betray you,
And twist the knife.
People can be empathetic,
Hold you close.
Be there for you,
When you need it the most,
Or break your heart,
Snap it in two,
Lie and say they’re sorry,
Like they always do.
They can nurture,
They can praise,
Or they can hurt,
And manipulate,
Depends on the person,
And their heart,
Where they are,
And where they started from.
People are people,
That’s who we are,
Imperfectly perfect,
Gazing at the stars,
Wondering our purpose,
Wondering the worth of this.
Not everyone is evil,
Not everyone is kind,
People are people,
All of the time…

Venice’s Commemorative Monument to Bartolomeo Colleoni - 1488



The general glares downwards from his horse,

faithfully keeping watch over the mundane,

the tedious progression of centuries.

A sentinel, he had imagined himself—a noble,

intended to become immortal,

traveling ever forward in time,

defying the erasure of memory.



But time is the enemy of all things.

The pigeons and the rain could be tolerated;

time, however, has become relentless and unyielding.

It has eroded his heroic relevance,

he watches unblinking as his glorious benevolence

fades from all memory.

Generation after weary generation

manifests the ruinous decay of collective forgetfulness.