Feathers torn from the gaping napes of wind began to dwindle and resist in spite of the gravity crushing tsunami.

Trapped in a facade of  impersonating flowing rain every feather dived to their unplanned descent.

All drowning in the nightmarish truth of actually being smothered in tears of a blue eyed-giant as they fell from the sky of that big blue eye’s, dead decapitated face.
A face severed on a head that hid a heavenly chateaus inside a false impersonated globe forever resting among the stars.

Inside housed all kinds of dimensional beings rarely ever seen but all known to possess legendary archaic features.
They mastered all the realms and lastly rule our skies.
They are cold warriors of combat- handled by their deadly grace, poisonous envy,  blinding halos, and suffocating wings…

Oh such undeniably divine things!

First plucked from you, then stolen from me!


A conscious belief known only by those who wish to remain unseen

as we become the common theory of all your pretty inanities.

A monochrome film plays
Over and over.
To a singular audience.
It rewinds.
Pauses.
Fast-forwards.
It sticks on one frame
Over and over.
In the scene
It's me, lost in a
Labyrinth.
It's walls lit with
projected clips
of a monochrome film.
Playing.
Over and over.

I'll sing my own funeral song
And attend my wake alone
I'll write and read my eulogy
And drive my hearse home.

I'll sing my own funeral song
Send my own soul to rest
I'll pray over my casket
And mourn my life and death.

I'll sing my own funeral song
Place a single flower on my grave
I'll out myself into the ground
And cover my stilled face.

I’ll make a haiku
It will not say what I want
At least I’m speaking

Oh---the words won’t knit themselves
Alone with nothing but mere thought,
Without the help of wondrous hand,
They’re nothing
But a sorrow lot

Of strangers screaming in sad verse
Visions of wisdom & of truth
Without the knowledge lost in sense
Without the soul of fearless youth.

fishing for words in th
e pool of eternity fishe
rmen of the world unit
e can you feel it shimm
ery waters let them tak
e it lie to your wife infi
nite times more than e
ver the bomb oh? THE B
OMB and letter A in the
back of your mind hold
ing a gun wait is it true…………………………….No? Laugh!

At this point it may not even
Be a poem,
Just too many intends in a too
Wordy sentence,
But it doesnt matter what it
Is, because all I
Want to get across is that

I love you.