The landscape forces

me to put it on canvas --


and then it won't work.

Fragile, It shines in the night
A reflective surface, redirecting the light
Thorns so sharp they cut into bone
Appearing so beautifully, Yet being alone

Few admire it, others just pass it by
Even nature chooses to say goodbye
Unnatural yet it settles in
Never withers and always gleams

Standing out like a sore thumb
Its beauty unnoticed by some
Does its thorns hurt just as much
Or does it slide off by one's touch?

Is it appreciated by the wild life
or treated as another object
Does it shine off the moon in the night
Or does it stay stagnant?

A Glass rose, artificial yet endearing
A imitation of nature, and a homage to whats real
A lesson on true love, and knowing lies from truth
A beginning, an ideal,  and a cool Glass Rose

You know it's true when I say
that we are messed up
in our own little way.

We cry and complain
This is a mess
but when it's gone
our life's just too plain
We miss the madness.

But that's human nature
by which we abide
Because the grass is always greener
on the other side.

When the air shudders
and the air is thick with
onyx pressure, dunes of war,
muffled gusts and stubborn iron --

A tree sighs barren,
unable to support their own leaves.
A giant of reverence,
testament to love,
time's lust and an intimate rot long gone.

The bucking of future's specter,
the manic hoarse thunder at silent soil
and patience lost to rain's unbent ear.

They who died with a full belly,
remorse only for wind's kiss and Earth's embrace,
laying with demons,
open door, dialogue honey, a bookcase full, sore legs.

opulent hearts

-- Heaven's ******* and Hell's divine,
the Hummingbird of West Berlin,
the mortal's roach and the stars' first undead

with taut bones and ragged flesh,
amongst carnival lights
and eldest fire's pride,

returns to the World again.

Unceremoniously,
birds and frogs and men
begin their songs

and I decide it better not to join them.

For all the wealth and health
and warmth and rigor
as the restless tide --
waiting for silence --
breathes and descends

timid,
restless,
afraid and alone

rusted metal of apathy
and the forlorn sound of laughter very,
very far away

across the hall
wheat grows;
up the stairs
is moonlight,

and in one room,
birds and frogs and men
sing their songs

when the ground calms
and ground returns underfoot
and the fires are out

the wheat and the moonlight
and the birds and frogs and men
will be farther away yet

but in the throes of desperation
for far-flung mountains and sleep
and crayfish in the river
and hands in someone else's hair

no songs will be sung.

in my heart's aching survival lurch --
mad, hysterical stampede as it is--
the wind will blow again
toward fantasies and imaginations,
sunlight and clouds
waves' cold whispers and the wisdom of stars

but descend,
descend,
descend

what's done is not gone,
and those echoes from away in time
stampede themselves

surviving themselves
on tantrums
stubborn drama
impatience's reward

because above the wheat and moonlight
is a burden of love and company unwanted
and my heart breaks
for the birds and frogs and men
who have since stopped singing

and that I decided it better not to join them.

In the cosmic dance of swirling lights,
Where stars are born and darkness fights,
The universe whispers secrets old,
In silver threads and dust of gold.

Galaxies twirl in elegant grace,
Each a part of the endless space,
Planets orbit in silent tunes,
Around their suns, like drifting balloons.

Mysteries hide in the blackest night,
Beyond the reach of human sight,
Yet we gaze up with hopeful eyes,
Dreaming of truths beyond the skies.

Infinite worlds, both big and small,
The universe holds them, one and all,
A canvas vast for us to explore,
Its beauty, a siren call to implore.

So let us journey through the stars,
Past the confines of our earthly bars,
For in the universe, we find our place,
A tiny speck, in its grand embrace.

His voice,
voyages through the darkness of every
cornered shadow, chasing after the reins
of ultimately being consumed,— annihilated.

As if being pressed to the heart
of an angel; as the tears of stars are
dancing in the drape of faultless dark,
Sweltering bright, — as a flame impaled
his gaze, with the loudest of needles.

Every breath grew harder, and harder,
as if the same needles were jabbing around
in his stomach— they must have been nerves;
the butterflies he had felt, declaring his
hidden affections to a crush.

The same crushing feeling you
have for a crush, that you hope
won’t crush you with their refusal,
But rather crush you with
the crushing idea:
         of falling in love.

Roses fall, silent;
In moonlight, like pouring rain.
On the leaves, dew hangs

I envisioned these days so often,
fearful of the independence soon to come.
Repression has surpassed to grant this favor
of forgetful remembrance –
or perhaps my memory you’ve stripped as well.

Loneliness stalks even the proudest of prey,
probing the crevices stashed deep away
to betray the very promises endemic to your core.


Now do I savor the silence I once abhorred.


I lie and I listen to the serenity all around,
obscurities of the day whispering from my walls
as an auburn Cardinal serenades from outside.

The moon beckons me near, apologetic murmurs
of her needless façade from the past –
a revered box fan underwhelms the silence
and disperses my diffused Siberian fir,
crips notes of pine and aromatic wintergreen
to soothe the comfort of my nightly routine.


Now do I know myself more than ever before.