As  Lisa falls asleep
She feels her soul leave her body
As it shoots to the moon
Alas she is alive
She is now on the moon
This happened 200 year ago
Long before the thought of astral projection
And to this day you see her
Face blend in the craters of the moon

There is a house
on the edge of the world,
where the wind forgets its name.
It does not welcome travelers;
it devours them,
pulling their stories
into the walls,
where they rattle like leaves
trapped in glass jars.

No one built this house.
It grew.
Its beams are the ribs
of something that never learned to die,
its windows open not to air
but to the sighs of lost seasons.
Even the sun’s gaze
glances off its roof,
afraid to linger.

The door isn’t locked,
but it resists touch—
a surface too smooth,
like skin stretched
over something restless beneath.
Still, you knock,
your knuckles trembling
as the sound folds into silence.

Inside, the rooms shift
when you look away.
A hallway grows longer
with each step,
its floorboards breathing softly,
as though the house is inhaling
your unease.
The walls ache with the weight
of unsaid things.

In the center of the house,
there is a room
with no corners,
its shape dissolving
as you try to name it.
Here, the wind gathers.
Not the wind you know—
not the playful breeze
or the feral howl—
but the discarded breaths
of all who came before you.

You see their faces in the wallpaper,
their mouths frozen mid-sentence,
their eyes half-lidded
like clocks stopped
between seconds.
They whisper your name,
though you have not spoken it.

You try to leave,
but the house will not permit it.
It swallows your footsteps,
its floors growing soft
as the wind begins to rise.
It presses into your chest,
pulling at the corners
of your voice,
stealing the words
before they can shape themselves.

And then you know.
The house eats the wind
because the wind carries memory,
and memory tastes of the living.
It feeds on the forgotten,
the untold,
the silences that stretch
between what was
and what will never be.

When you vanish,
as you must,
the house will grow another door,
another room to catch the wind.
Someone else will come.
They always do.

winter fed us with blood-red berries and ice clouds,
our visible breath soon colder than our lips.
i did not want to see what you had seen,
could not grow out of those sad, sad eyes.
we fell into the calm wave of circumstance
and twilight hurried from us into the dark.
hurried away like the last drop of sunlight
purples the earth, dancing on the edge of the world.
do we wait, stone-heavy, for the last tendrils
of day to melt like ice?
the fearful cold breathes like a fog,
gathers its stars of voice and hill,
gathers memories and distant dreams,
lets us forget.
are you the ghost that lies on the hill
calling to me?
are you that ghost,
whose irons soften like cloud,
whose frozen leaf trembles on the branch
waiting to fall to the whispering land?
your eyes are from the past and yet
they follow like a cold wind blasts.
your eyes, everywhere your sad eyes,
biting like a frost.

Lithe lady of the lake, follow me
Right down here,
Down azure paths lit
By the dripping moon.
The summer has not passed;
We are in the dawn,
Do not let it sail away
Like the receding tide
Of yesterday.
We are all born into the ephemeral breath;
Some choose to ignore it,
Others ride it.

Lithe lady of the lake, follow me
Right down here,
Down azure paths lit
By the dripping moon.
The summer has not passed;
We are in the dawn,
Do not let it sail away
Like the receding tide
Of yesterday.
We are all born into the ephemeral breath;
Some choose to ignore it,
Others ride it.

Imagine what we could be
If you weren't just a constellation in the sky
A clutter of space rocks in the back of my mind
And if it were just you and I
For you would that be alright
To feel and tell secrets and sweet lies
Is a small price to pay for human paradise

Like the stream of consciousness in your eyes
You desperately try to hide but that i know it like the back of my mind
And I remember every little thing you said about yourself
And how you like to spend your days and how your eyes they're tired but so full of life
It's like a bottomless ocean, in it
Death seems like no limit
And I'll keep my blind spirit
In your inexistence I'll go delirate

My selections of letters to you mean nothing
To me they're perfect poems written just for me
You make me question if my sanity really exists
Or do I just wanna hold someone and be a know-nothing for the hope of it all
When all this world does is fall

My portrait is hidden in my basement;
The azure paint,
Like skies of June,
Is flaking like the waning moon,
Revealing a monotone landscape.
The hyacinth smell,
Is usurped
By dry, withered grass.
The serpent,
Dream-like,
Slithers
Through the underbrush,
Of the tree
From which I hung
My soul.
Let me back into
Paradise lost;
A blind man searching
In a room full of girls
For his lover.
I’m searching for what
Was lost,
For the haven
We abandoned,
While the serpent
Slithers ever closer
To my
Swaying soul.

Let me illuminate the stage.

Take my hand and let us walk back through the wilted willows.
The soft complacency of silk pillows is now covered in mold.
They have usurped our pristine kingdom;
O, Untainted kingdom.

Our god has become a mortal,
And ravens meander across his soul.
We are lost in the wilderness of pure madness;
Where are the hitherto skies of reason?

The apples are corrupted by smug, fat worms,
And Jackals feast on our smooth ankles.
Buzzards encircle babes at birth and
Alas feast on them whenever they please.

Wine flows like a murderous viper
Across a desolate, crumbling Arden.
Illiterate men feign literacy in the back of bars
And meagre glimpses of sunlight flash across charred skies.

I miss that breeze, that warm breeze;
Where is my Eden?

Let’s go to the moon
Sail upon these ancient currents
We can try, baby;
See by the moonlight.
The sunlight is imposing
Tyrannical
Almost burning

These mannacles are rusted,
Do you see?
We just ought to try
And break on free
Into the cool night

See?
Do you see, baby?
I really ought to, uh,
**** you
No, I mean feel you

This ship is safe
It only crashed last time
And before that too
But we’ll be all right, baby
You just wait and see

Yeah, all the way to the white goddess
No, I’m no captain
Only a sailor
Sailing to the moon.

There is no bank in this river;
Waters stretch out.
Tumultuous tides masqueraded by mellow lies.
They have painted over the exotic colours
With monochromatic hues.
The feast has become a rudimentary meal.
The skies have been mapped out
With cruel logic and rules.
Borders have been placed;
There is no more wandering.
The mystique has become a beggar
Living and a-stumblin’ for the Dollar.