Take me to the line
Whisk me to the end
A place of lived reality
Where it makes sense

Take me to the river
Drown me in a fall
A place of abstraction
Where magic happens

Take me to the icecaps
Freeze me on the peaks
A place of surreality
Where ecstasy copulate

This space of fiction
*** brewed as a drug
Lovers a bought right
Lines of ruins and glories

Draw the line to see
A bridge of realness
A tow halved illusions
Drag me to the in-betweens

I have always preferred the ancient, crippled and malformed ruins of places. The backbones of civilisation laid bare upon the ribs of the earth, I see more beauty in this destruction than angel's houses that stand tall and golden, shimmering in the light of the sun and preserved as if God's own hand had molded them. They are wrong.
See here the gloat of man! How we scream for attention and praise using the shining foundations of an unknown God to control the known masses and make them believe we are bigger than we are; bigger than the dirt that molded us and the humble springs that nutured us. We are not infallible nor unbreakable as those golden houses would tell. We are as fleeting and finite as the ages of man passed in bare rememberence.
We build our homes amongst ruins and return to them despite any prayers, temples, or carved angels, we are born from dust and we return to it, with no divide to say what man served what god or what coin filled who's purse.
The dark takes everything and does not hold favourites.

I met a boy who doesn't want to let anything nor anyone close;
For he is made of ruins and constantly fears that he will destroy everything he touches.

I find myself lingering more and more in the emptiness and because of this I awake in the chaos of a misplaced life. I am constantly forced to build an empire from the ruins of my mind, but the bricks never align the same each time.

                       I am
not doing
                          well. I’m
     not
                                 doing well
          at all.

I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.

Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.

Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.

There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom  
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.

Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.

Her body was a temple
but her mind and heart are in ruins.

These dreams of ruins
won’t let me sleep at nights
I often find myself surrounded by wrecked walls
as if I may have lived the lives of a thousand knights

Walls that once would have been so proud
stood there marvellously and astonished the crowd
But now they stand in the forms of shaky megaliths
making me wonder by what force of evil they got ploughed
I try to imagine the unending suffering it must have brought
Moments ago I could hear a few whimpers
but I can tell you now, they were actually screeches
since everything is ever so clear and loud

I tell myself, I can’t stand this dreadful sight
so I turn around, trying to look away with all my might
I even try to look at the ground,
attempting to forget this vicious game of thrones

but look! What tricks this brain plays
still tries to disrupt my gaze
I SO want to get away
but it confronts me in all my ways
Shows me more wrecked walls
not letting me, yet making me want to run away
and finally, I do wake up! But the memory stays ...