Lighting strikes at the base of my roots.
It climbs up my limbs
Charring my flesh It bites into me
Chewing my nerves
Stabbing needles into my veins
I cannot move.
I am intertwined with this place.
I am bound here.
Lightning does not strike once.
It strikes again.
Again.
And again.
And every time, It is excruciating.

I wait eagerly for you to return
Though I know your presence is temporary
I still swallow up every morsel of attention I can get
And though I have a fear of needles
I shoot each bit of love you can muster for me into my veins
I beg you silently to stay
With actions I'd never think would exist within me
Each time you go, it's unexpected
And each time, I tremble in your absence
I crave the high you set me on
The feeling of being adored
Of being worth something
Anything

My portrait is hidden in my basement;
The azure paint,
Like skies of June,
Is flaking like the waning moon,
Revealing a monotone landscape.
The hyacinth smell,
Is usurped
By dry, withered grass.
The serpent,
Dream-like,
Slithers
Through the underbrush,
Of the tree
From which I hung
My soul.
Let me back into
Paradise lost;
A blind man searching
In a room full of girls
For his lover.
I’m searching for what
Was lost,
For the haven
We abandoned,
While the serpent
Slithers ever closer
To my
Swaying soul.

Two voices speak loud,
Each truth holds half of the light,
Wisdom in balance.

Dying petals adorn the sidewalk
They're varying pigments document life's varying stages of leaving,
Thwarts drafts of wind, their nature
to revel in my gaze
Not in act of personification,
They are not the object of attraction
No,
But a messenger to the careful stepper,
“Look up.”

Mankind is a mosaic
of everything they have done in their existence;
insignificant if the pieces cease
to fit against each other,
all intertwined into one melancholic,
woe-filled work of art.