i caught
the midnight sky
winking at me
as i walked
out the front door;
its clouded lid
falling upon
that bright
but waning eye
for the briefest
of moments

it is hard
to know
if this was
a gesture
   of endorsement
a translunary "attaboy"
   of encouragement
to keep walking
this path
less travelled
or an accusatory
reassurance
despite
   the ambivalence
that my secrets
would be kept
by this
ever-watchful
stellar companion

Let's liberate this silence
Let it blemish with the smoke
Coming off of the cooling coal
That once burned
in the wake of unvoiced promises

Somehow, you and I have managed to exchange dreams,
fears, and beliefs with one simple unspoken conversation

And now words cascade
Down rivers of my arteries and veins
Toward the palm of your hands
Hold them close
(I never intended to let them go)

But it seems that with every nonverbal exchange
A string of understanding ties us together
And there is nothing left in my power that I could do

To save us from the falling sky, splinters of moon,
and blankets of midnight blue

I dream as a flower,
opening in waves
as the pages of a book,
I bloom between dreams
and reality while in
sips of tea, the people
who walk past, they too,
are beings of water in the oceans of
the mind and are visitors of the earth,
stars are in the words they speak
within the the ease of the midnight hour,
the propeller seeds lift for the moon in
the eyes they held for one another,
the depth in the quiet longing
and the secrets of love lead
I, the writer, in my wish to sing, “all the
unsung is, by the sight
of the heart, sung forever”,
so then, all the things
they behold become
as they are, wondrous.

i listen to the dead bird sing,
as it lays footsteps for me to follow,
when the wind howls into my soul
i hear the whirring echo
a pregnant fear, a jitter of soul's trauma.
this is not a fairytale, it sings.
small drops of water that fall from the sky
you shall forget the wisp of rain
the touch of grass and
the breath of ocean air
you shall forget it's feeling.
if you keep listening to me, it says.
everything of warmth will evaporate.
and you'll be left with only my voice.
but i want to keep listening
to the dead bird's song.
because it is beautiful.
because it touches my soul.
And plants a seed of magical numbness
just enough to not feel everything else
that would be gone.
i want the prelude to end.
and the chorus to begin.

-arsonpoet

‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.

A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.

I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.

The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,

A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.

MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.

I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.

I am left
To react.

React to what?
React to wee?            React,
to relationships,        React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.


Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.

The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.

There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.

'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.

i want to blame her for
the wrong permutations
of time, people and events
that rattled our wan cages
i set her soul free at night
but in the process of unison,
i hit a wall flailing myself
in a well diving deep.
falling or drowning in incense.
even i do not realise.
what is the point of this?
if we have nothing but bodies left.
hearts will beat.
but souls can die.

i ask myself
questions my soul
refuses to answer
because it is soaked
in the silence of this night.

i refrain from anger
i build my castles
with strokes of moonlight
you only see it
in the luminescence of the night.

i lay lifeless on the ground
the sky above is a cutting board
i want to stick objects in there
with tools and utensils of memory.
i have forgotten my roots
because my wings dragged my
by the brink of death.


i wish not to be found
on such nights.
because i am not thinking
but breathing in unison.
i am believing my stories
and singing my own songs.
i am on leave.
and i desire to be.