This is but a simple night,
Not unlike any other,
But the lonely figure in the garden
Meets the face of yet another

I become the face I see on the other side of the mirror,
The outside observer, the heinous sight,
Shifting ever slightly still,
So the glass might catch the light.

For it may be the sunny day,
Or the calm and peaceful night,
Yet still, you’ll see the small figure in the garden,
Smiling with delight.

My past sits before me in a cushioned armchair
mimicking my crossed legs
a swaying foot

I’m so focused on its story
that the walls surrounding begin flickering swiftly
yellow, grey, violet, grey, yellow

in minute intervals, everything else vanishes
except a voice that travels from there to here

the words ever changing as they go, and finally settling upon the tips of my fingers

then, comes to me, names that nurture the weeds in my veins
from my first love, a bright doe
through the birds, vampires and ghosts
all the way to Pan

to cultivate this breathtaking wildflower is my fantasy
so that its fragrance will entrance me into a state of sleep
and take me to a place where resolution is needless

between me and the cushioned chair
are miniscule grains of actuality blended with accidental lies

I know there’s no literal plant
just as I know that there’s no literal resolution
and that it’s not really my fault

I was always good enough to have it all
therein lies the perfect balance of pain and joy

for I do not have any of those people anymore, this is fact
for that’s just how life works, this is faith

Introspection
The art of finding within
What you cannot live without

I lay still as if I were a breathing corps.
My heartbeat reminds me I still live.
My mind wanders aimlessly;
It drifts in and out of the borders of valid conception,
and withers to its content.

Am I alive,
or waking from a prolonged dream?
These thoughts contradict my understanding of this world.
They break the grips of my reality,
and plunge me into the unknown.

Although the notion tinges a world of fear.
My perspective shifts;
My consciousnesses fades away
and is vibrantly replaced
by a wave of blissful euphoria.

This is a strange existence.
Time is irregular;
It means nothing here.
Days seem like seconds;
minutes seem like weeks.

O' to what a mishap,
a folly happenstance,
a fringe to conventionality.
To who or what pleasure
do I owe?

Part of me wishes to leave this place.
Albeit a part wishes to remain.
I am in love with this realm,
yet I know there is somewhere else
that I must be.

So now I set sail
to find the world that I came from;
with a pleasant gift from the one I left.
                   I look upon an old existence,
                                             with new eyes.

I held the keys to the jail
Stole them from my cell
Between Earth and Hell
That’s where I’ve felt
Paint the gold a silver
That’s why the mirror hurts
I’m not worthless, but I’m less worth

Snow
Has fallen
For so long
In my mind
It's been
Numbing
All the feeling
Deep inside

Afraid
To feel
What burns so
Cold
For weakness
Is a hard
Fault to
Behold

I choke
I just
Dont want
To be
Alone
Anymore
My heart is
Sore from
Running
From itself

I dont want
To live
On the shelf
So lonesome
My china
Skin will
Crack
And my paint
Will fade
In the
Snow