The musky candle,
solely lighting
the black room,
casts a shadow of the bedside fern—
a delicate silhouette
swaying on the wall.

Follow me now-
As we exhale,
deepening til there's no air,

As we inhale,
let our eyes focus
on the buzzing space that lives
in between objects and bodies.

Bring your attention
to the pleasure of stillness,
the lingering taste of wine
on your tongue.

Feel the pull
of our quiet obsessions,
the gravity of our thoughts.

There’s a ballerina on the stage,
bleeding out through the whites of her costume—
the faces on the curtains are laughing—
a mirror of the world watching—
the spectacle of reds will not be washed away—
once tainted, feathers cannot be wings again.
all that’s left is rotten flesh—
once beautiful enough to make a man go insane.

I dream of dying like a ballerina—
my decay is a masterpiece—
born with broken wings, I crave a swan’s flesh—
between my teeth, I **** the remaining beauty.
my bones will be jewellery— desired—
We must **** the oysters to get the pearls.

Do not call me by that nickname,
I cannot be yours in the way you want me to—
I must give my body to the stage—
my soul belongs to the audience—
my blood will paint a dead ballerina—
hang it high above your bed,
I will haunt your dreams like you did mine.

Far away, I see a man
Standing tall on rocks of sand.
Careful not to move or breathe.
Fearful of what may break beneath.

He sees me, too,
Wading in a pool of blue.
Here I have stood for years,
Now tired from all of my fears.

The water whispers my name,
Saying I am not to blame.
She offers me rest.
And lulls me to take one last breath.

But the man warns me to keep my head above,
Warning me of the devil’s dove.
If I die, so will he; even now, we totter
Scared, I may drown in three feet of water.

Like a candle,
The reflection of our shattered, but beating heart continues to grow Dimmer
As the passage of time goes on;
Kindled by our growing sorrow and the want to be ignited yet again for one final time,
The hours fleeting by as flowers wilt
And the ever-lasting rain ceases.

It's eating me up alive,
Or am I too rotten to be fed?
Alone, inside-out, my head—
Let me out of this horror fest.

Pictures became archives,
Of a repetitive, stagnant time.
Anger manifests itself—
Am I rotten enough yet?

A sharp pain in my chest;
I put on a smile instead.
Juices seeping out, blood-red—
Pages fill my medical files.

Is it supposed to be a crime?
I am my own target.
The old folks lied—
An apple couldn't keep me alive.

Words cut deeper than knives,
Wounds that fester in my mind.
Home to others, not myself—
Am I rotten enough yet?

A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::

Dip your poets brush in words
give me the east wind
the smell of snow beneath my feet
heavy yellow summer heat
splashing rain upon a roof
sketch me proof, or lies, or pain
draw me a sound I will not hear again
paint me a picture, for the things my eyes cannot see