there is a small fire,
a flickering light,
akin to a firefly lost
in the cold mists of night,
shining bright where
my joy should be.

there is a deep well,
a profound darkness,
akin to a cavern flooded
with frigid dark waves
echoing eternally
to the sound of loneliness.

there is a lackluster wreckage,
a broken trireme,
akin to a kingly one
that sailed out of Ithaca,
bleeding memories through
a gashing wound.

there is a rhyme,
a shattered syllable,
akin to a muffled shout
that reverberated throughout
those splintered blinks
of a forlorn childhood...

motherless.

to be sheltered in loving arms,
to be held in sunlight above the crowd
so they may see you bask
in radiance.
to be nurtured.
Would I ever know what it feels like?

fatherless.

to be sheltered in a brave heart,
to be held in moonlight above the crowd
so they may never hurt you
in darkness.
to be protected.
Would I ever know what it feels like?

loverless.

to be sheltered in adoring eyes,
to be held in starlight above the crowd
so you may know truest love
in purity.
to be enamored.
Would I ever know what it feels like?

childless.

to be the shelter.
to hold above the crowd.
to be kissed by a rose on the grave.
to be missed.
Would I ever know what it feels like?

A sorrow that feels like a mother
Out of shape, with a little scar
A cool kiss-mark that I wipe
On my way out of the house
Do not stumble, mother. Do not you
Lose your way on your way to us
I love you with childhood, with maturity
With the stubborn memory
Of chipped walls and a crammed room
Where you lived as a bride of waxen wings
Do not laugh when you speak
To us of flight. Do not warn with
A softened voice.

The cloak of your quiet
Leaves a scent in my palms
And the women sense it
The men are lured, they promise
Absolution, and I flee
Like a fly, return like a fly, I cower
In the shadowing absence of word

And it is in all my work. You,
Candle. Bribing the night
For momentary mercy. Do not laugh
When you itch to weep.
Your woolen arms loyal to tear
To fear and defeat. I know a lament
That talks of you

With a swollen lip, its reticence
Brittle as chalk, it bursts as a stifled
Fruit of spite, it eats eats eats you
I hate you with shame, with burning
Flight. I hate you with the sun.
I write all night, I cannot sing
I rob the little sleep of dream
And weep weep weep for you
Then crawling I sink within my blue
And let the morning dove take lead

Don't worry,
in one of these days I'll be gone,
you wouldn't know where I will be,
you wouldn't know where to would I run.
But don't worry,
it will be in a place where you would like.
you wouldn't know it's in a quaint surftown,
it will be somewhere you'll also wanna hide.

No doubt,
sometime soon I'll be away,
I know you wouldn't feel the longing,
you wouldn't know the feeling of being astray.
But don't doubt,
I'll be in a place where I wanna be with you,
you wouldn't know if I'm in some place warm.
I'll be with you anywhere and you know it too.

So I'll be everywhere.
You'll find me in the air, in flowers, in breeze.
I'll be wherever there's summer, even winter.
I'll be everywhere.
You'll find me in the moon and in palm trees.

But you have to tell me these too;
"I want you gone."
"Please hide."
"Please run."
"You're not the one I like."
"Go away."
"I don't wanna be with you."

Then I'll be gone, I'll go hide.
I'll run, hide some more, and hide, and hide.

Then I'll be nowhere.
You'll find me in the fleeting January air,
I'll be wherever there's no spring, all fall.
I'll be nowhere.
You'll find me in December, or nowhere at all.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
Pastures of azure
amidst agony, frozen
within a monster’s jaws.
Its frostbite fades into my
veins.
Again, within these beryl
everglades cannot move.
I cannot see you.
Where have you gone?
This air, it blisters
Into my lungs and
benumbs me.
And still, I run.
Accept my feelings,
here and now.
And in parting, let me vow
that in a night
or in a day
if you vanish
or if you stay
in my death
when my flesh is gray
you will see me in your everglades.
I run
in search of you.
within the moor
and its creek of dreams.
lucent crystal cannot hold
my shivering bodies
it breaks beneath me.
bubbles. . . water. . .
flooding
flooding
flooding
into my body.
again?

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
Pastures of azure
amidst agony, frozen
within a monster’s jaws.
Its frostbite fades into my
veins.
Again, within these beryl
everglades?I can never move.
not truly.
I can never see you.
You are always gone.
This air, it blisters
Into my lungs and
benumbs me.
colder… colder
growing colder.
And still, I run
And still. I run?
Through the swamp
Through the trees
Through this forest
Of shattered dreams.
Why… do I run?
It’s not for father.
It’s not for mother.
It’s not for the god?Who never bothered.
bones splinter into my feet
tattered teeth from
children’s skulls,
and broken cartilage from?ah. I see.
this body isn’t just one of
mine,
It’s one of many.
hair, as fine as a violin’s
bow.
Feelings – left behind.
Somewhere.
Keen frost sinks in
its unforgiving fangs.
I succumb to the cold.
This Great Mire
consumes me.
again. again. again. again.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
Pastures of azure
amidst agony, frozen
within a monster’s jaws.
Its frostbite fades into my
veins.
Again, within these beryl everglades
Enough.
Enough..
Enough!
Please.
I beg of you.
Enough is enough!

High above,
The harvest moon shines.
And I see it reflected,
within your scarlet eyes.
A face I cannot see,
Another mind, presented.
Like a dream within a
dream.
Residual thoughts tremor
Through lost woods
Of muddled blue.
You offer me a tome,
Bound in black stardust.
Its words its whispers
Like a serpent’s soft sigh.

“For each word that you
read,
You will yearn,
your blood will burn.
For my knowledge
Of perception.
Hand over your heart,
If you truly wish to learn.
It matters not how you
plead,
If you oblige by this
serpent’s creed.
Your only form of
payment is to bleed.”
Fooled by your black sugar
That covers my eyes
You tricked me.
For the tome that I opened,
its pages,
Much like my own soul,
Are vacant.
And the water floods into
My lungs
Again.
Empty words dissipating
Upon the surface of the
mire.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The mire, borne
from past reflections,
that snap from my memory
like broken ribbons.
A child’s ribbon, torn from
her hair.
Ah.
I knew I had left these
thoughts,
Somewhere.
A book without words.
A mind without answers.
My tears hit the
parchment,
And text froths to the
surface.
A story.
I see a story here.
Its words reflecting
within shadows of blue-green.
And now,
Only now.
Do I see what you mean.
If I must repeat
This elegy.
If my pen cannot
Produce ink
Without agony is this vice worth taking?
And are these feelings
worth understanding?

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Morning dew tides
into my slivered lungs.
The skies are borne
from past reflections,
I can no longer remember
who the reflection is.
I have found myself,
Alas,
My soul remains,
Frozen within
This Elegy of the Glades.
My tears,
Turned to crystals
Within the mire.

Addled sapphire
blends with skies of
severed cerulean.
Skies that I reside within
Now, and forever

I write these words today
in hope that you might find a way
to know what is carved
into my heart.

I've searched for you
my whole life through
in every town or place,
I've been.

I know somewhere you must be there,
a belief my heart and mind both share
and they've reserved,
a place for you.

Though I often dream of you,
dreaming is all that I can do
so I just carry on,
along my lonely way.

Please hear my pleading heart
so that we may start,
to make all those dreams
come true.

With this hearts lament,
I must be content,
to hope, that you
might love me too.

For wherever you are,
no matter near or far,
this lament is sung...
just for you.

You think you'd have another chance
to make a dying wish
I was thinking I would take an endless glance
over some long lost art
We thought our tongues could have another dance
with an exceptionally good dish

We think we'd have another go
over things involving me and you
You were thinking there'll be more tomorrow
until tomorrow becomes "please, just go"
I thought I can have another taste of you
until your restaurant updates its new menu
until finally, there's no more me and you

Forever will my life be dominated by *******,

For nothing Ive tried has helped me overcome my addiction.

There was once a haunted tree,
not feared by many, in fact,
only by that of a young spinster.
But of five and twenty,
liked by many, however,
only a few were ever called her lover.

Until she met a man that felt like an army,
like hundreds of men marching,
whose loyalty was sworn for her beauty.
Until one man felt like a war waging,
yet like a calm ocean breeze blowing
and like marching silently into the dark sea.

Until there came the lover whose laughter
felt like an ache from a life long gone,
whose smiles felt like gunshots.
Until there was he who felt like home,
yet as distant as the tides are to the moon
and as untouchable as a silky thunderbolt.

There was a tree the spinster holds dear,
so close to her ever yearning heart.
This tree, she likens to that of her lover.
whose branches threatens to fall on her,
bears fruits that if they choose to plummet,
someone is to get hurt and it would be her.

And then there was a legend that this tree,
that was once a fruit of another host
that was fabled to be haunted.
But before the tales of horrors and shrieks,
it was abundant, it was the guide to the lost,
until it was axed, hunted as needed.

All of this tree's fruits turned to be of toxins,
opposing the townspeople's songs of praises.
All its branches grew webs upon cleaving,
challenging the tales of awes and delight.
All of which except for one, a golden fruit,
the root's promise and hope of the fallen.

What the preachers say could be of truth,
their words she avoided could be gospel.
What the non-believers say could be a tale,
their rumors could save her from demise.
What if the tree is just as rotten as the root,
what if it is indeed the produce from hell?

thought I was better...
clearly not. I am Tender
Scabs scraped off by time