You may call it Sky.
I call it Blue Breeze.
You may call it Sun.
I call it Zen.
You may call it Rose.
I call it Reason.

Forsaken shrine,
Nights align,
In a spotted chalice,
Like onyx wine.
Out rings a bell,
A raven knell,
The wicked cry,
And doleful spell--
     --Of witching's time.

A wayward soul,
On blinded stroll,
As through the dark,
They must patrol.
The traveled path,
A harsh lambast,
And so return,
The hour's bath.

Fore a shape,
A phantom escape,
Awaiting idol,
Past a molten scape.
River quelled,
Fusion's shell,
Lest a shade and shadow weld,
Beware the spell--
     --Of witching's time.

The ashen mirror that reflects our world,

The support, the barrier, and the gateway,

A resting mosaic of serenity,

A whirling portrait of distraught,

And the connection of two contrasting worlds.

A slice in the silence, pain shoots from the wound,

No shatter, nor collapse, only scars of a memory,

Accompanying signs of an unknown future.

But as the clock ticks, the mirror warps, and age begins to wear,

A hail rains down, beautiful cries and solemn weeps bleed from a frigid shield,

Miniscule waves and movements rock the support as scars and sounds are birthed,

Then, the pillars fall, and the mirror bends.

But even if all were to crumble, the only feeling would be sweet relief,

A cathartic collapse, the wound releases,

The noise is cut, serenity and silence return, beheld in new forms,

For the only woe an eradication feels is held within itself.

The Night sets in,
with stretched out sins,
and daylight starts to thin.
Time yet to be paid,
Night's song is played,
and so your climb begins.

The songs are howls,
grave wails and growls,
quavering in your core.
But alas the yowls,
are now your score,
they'll play forevermore.

Your eyes spot nothing,
as the sky is bluffing,
shadow cloaking light.
But now the darkness,
your adverse catharsis,
will coat you through the Night.

You mount the wall,
Night's idle thrall,
as screeching leaves you stunned.
But as you climb,
a rock slips high,
and now you know you're done.

You put up a fight, saw the light,
but now the time is nigh.
The Night has won,
the songs are done,
and you never spotted the sun.

We are just words that sing upon the page,

                                       but some never touch.
Singing in our thoughts.

Repetitive and with meaning, but never
                       do we write a word for us to cling too.


Always humming that repetitive metaphorical tune,
                          that  completes a hum down the line
                                  to a verbose culmination


and we still hum it even now further down the line.

i am a sort of — uh well
do i remind of the winter solstice?
manufactured authenticity, painting
calculated legacies, circular stride
holding binoculars
and gazing from night to night
all the while i live
in my beautiful pinhole

sight, herald of wounds
rinse, rinse, rinse in red scrutiny;
scour down to my finest bones
and remember, and see.
do not ask me
who i am or who i've been
i am but here before you
on display.

carry me from the rack (careful!)
i want you to hold these edges
bring me close,
kiss with eyes blinding—
read the script, can you,
of straying photons?
it is where i am.

you nemesis of time,
carry on, won't you?
let the mark fill out my jigsaw
for this room is dark.
but please, no summer solstice
— it will burn.
it will burn
— the texture that is me.