Death is beauty,
               as the rose atop of death
feeds on the nourishment of
                                   an empty shell.


Even though its petals decay,
                              its reaches higher

than the tomb
                      to bring life crimson to the surface.

A thought did burn upon the moor
Below the pearl - pure sheet of abundant sky
Throughly it burned from mind
With ash did feed the acrid heather
Its fragrance lulled the cloud-shell's spine
And silently one heart did tremble
In the moon - iced night

Lemon pores resemble those of human
Moon shaped skin
Thick nectar imbued beneath
This sweet cage holds back unearthly turbulence
Milky tint softens my worlds permeated with many
Words
A crescent shell contains numerous people
Do not grasp for
The sun-eyed
Solitude

We are but cadavers of memory,
                   cleansing the shore line


of word..

But sometimes we find
                that this shell will inexplicitly wash up again


more polished than before.

he was weak, and pathetic
and earnest, and kind
but he was that bleeding, aching, pain in my side
so i took both my hands and choked him to death,
forgetting the shell is as weak as the man

there is a dark room
the curtains are pulled
a little light penetrates
behind the locked door
I rarely go there
except in secret moments
when I know it's safe
and my hardened shell
can offer protection
I have to be strong
for the ones who rely on me
but like a weeping wound
my curiosity is drawn
visits get fewer and fewer
at some point I must stop
putting my childish anger
to rest

hermit crab
spying an empty shell
moving up in the world

Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?

Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity . . . windswept and blue.

This poem about sympathy for someone contemplating suicide was originally published by TC Broadsheet Verses. I was paid a whopping $10, my first cash payment. It was subsequently published by Piedmont Literary Review, Penny Dreadful, the Net Poetry and Art Competition, Songs of Innocence, Poetry Life & Times, Better Than Starbucks and The Chained Muse.

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, this epigram has been translated into Russian, Turkish, Macedonian and Arabic