So beset was I with the city’s ills that I had decided to make it muse and dog. It would be from there that I would attain character and breed disdain. It was the city’s beating sun that made my skin crawl with darkness, the streets’ sharp nights that would eviscerate my wiry gut. In the beating, repulsive core of it all: the architect of my passage into all loves unknown. In that quick breath, I am not made a cynic by my pocketed demeanour. The cynics are stiff to love and unmoved by devotion. I am more brutish than those tired men; younger and filled with lashing virility. Through peaks and troughs, by veins and alleys, I am made whole and aware by motion and truth. This truth, I know: that master will cede control to the mammal, that frivolity will make way for chaos. In the age of tired bliss and hopeful terror, I could fasten myself to the reins and decry with swept breath; a vain dust in the wind. Instead, I will run and in that moment, be given up to love. A love so supreme it may gnash and look hideous. It is ill enough to think, and such incisions are the armour of the valiant.

I will stare at impudent reflection, and he will riposte with words that will tear at my suppositions. He will make me absolute- by my doing, and mine alone. In the simple hour, I see that every small movement is a microcosm of my Self. The act of lighting a match is then diluted into the whimsy of sparking the torch with nuclear fission. To be ablaze, then, is good enough and will atone me of my heritage- a heritage of vanity and shallow delight. When all dreams converge upon me, my shackles will cut me and throw me into the loose embrace of freedom. It will be painted in the image of *****, and all peers may peer and gawk, but not me. I have spent the past gazing through stolen periscopes, and piecing that frame of entropy in such lost silence. When the hawk of summer is finally shot dead by the falconer, he will steal its skin and thrive as the griffin of cold bedlam- where nothing grows to be forgotten, and nothing thrives to be forsaken. I will keep one hand open and one eye hidden, to shield my intentions and maintain the prized mark. There, am I not made man and bright by such exodus? Am I still the furrowed animal with sunken brow, sleeping at the behest of the sunset? If salvation will not follow, then I will afford myself time to wait and simmer in the tender visions of tomorrow. Be assured, though, that I lie in wait like the two-legged beast- the same beasts that crawled through the dagger sands and drowned under careless seas. In plight, I retain my name and definition. My mane is left unkempt as it desecrates the horizon behind me- soon to be below. I lie, herdless and tamed by instincts of the Bedouin- a steep and supple corpse. The sun too, knows my name now and it wishes to dominate me. When the white light swallows the grass ahead, I will climb-never crawl- to my cellar and continue to toil at my ill-gotten gains, my unremarkable shape.

Water flows, as if racing itself to the end of its path,
The dark blue sky is alight with alluring purples and pinks,
with nebulae like otherwordly glistening waves.
Silence surrounds and embraces every being nearby,
as peaceful as even the sweetest of melodies.

Colorful flowers of blue, yellow, and pink grow scattered on a river’s shoreline,
jewels upon nature’s crown.
The river’s lifeblood runs blue, matching the Iris and Brunnera that line its own edges,
enchanting any who lay eyes on them.
Small whitecaps develop, a blemish upon the serenity,
even in complete beauty, nature’s imperfection manifests.

A forest grove spreads nearby,
green leaves and crimson red flowers swirl from shadowy, thick shrubbery.
A purple-blue glow emanates from bulbous pods along the outer edges, pinned on bushes like ornaments.
Pines, towering stalks that pierce towards the enticing but dim sky loom overhead.
There waits within the grove a tender darkness, holding secrets seen by few.

A campfire blazes, illuminating the surrounding tranquility,
warm red-orange flame whipping and snapping back and forth.
Adjacent rocks are scalded black, torched by an agitated inferno.
Sparks are lifted to the ether like minuscule fireworks,
before crashing down to the grass below, as if bombing the terrain.

These wilds are a mystery,
touched by few, but experienced by many.
They await all of us, close by at all times,
but many lack the sight to see them.
If you enter these wilds, enjoy your time,
but do not attempt to control them,
Simply hold on, and enjoy the naturalistic beauty,
It could be yours.

they keep running out like roll film before me
pictures clicking away faster than i can see
never repeating old faces flashing by
who are you? perhaps seen once in a lullaby
projector is strangely static - the cartridge drops
still it’s going and it’s going and it never stops
nothing! nothing but it’s all over my fingertips
smudged on my forehead and dripping from my lips
i cannot perceive these silverscreens
tangible airs or figments of my dreams
going and going until it tears and rips
nothing! endless nothings all over my fingertips

Autumn light spills over the land, the golden sunshine barely peeking over the snow-topped mountains.
A soft breeze sweeps under the orange leaves, urging them into flight as they then drift swiftly into the distance.
A warm hue shines on the blades of grass, reflecting a clear image onto the still, glass pond.
Trees sway hesitantly, casting crooked shadows on the weaving path.
As the last traces of the day dissipate, the planet slipping into a restless slumber, a cool silver mist filters out any last color.
A blurry world stares back at me, chilling wind grabbing hold of my ankles like ice-cold fingers against my bones.
Threatening to pull me down, force clean air into my lungs, pressing on my chest until I have no choice but to inhale, breathing in the crisp fog with sputtering coughs.
Shivers prickle my skin, dancing up my spine and down my arms.
My vision shakes as tears well up in my eyes.
I let my gaze fall one last time on everything around me, taking in the beauty of nature before the light will vanish completely.
A dark world is gut-wrenching when all the lovely things that make Earth precious are clouded by shades of black.
Why open your eyes at night when it will be just the same as what you see when you close them.

The scene fades out of view as I’m forced out of my fond memories at the sound of crying.
The red leaves on the trees, covering the grass, and even swirling in the air shift suddenly into blinding flames, swallowing any lush vision from before.
The evening mist transforms into smoke, sirens and screams wailing in my ears, ricocheting in my mind.
Any calm feeling that had come from my daze snaps out of existence, so quickly it is almost as if it was never even there, as I turn to see the real world burning and falling apart around me.

I nurture the creator in you;
the little god that throbs to be master of
words and colors, lines and notes.
I watch you give birth to it.
I see how it squeezes out of
your brain and crawls across
the floor- all ****** and wet.
It's alive and glorious and grotesque.
You're immortal- a giver of life.
I hold it to my face, and breathe in
the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire.
I kiss its fur, and taste the
fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet.
I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk,
stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear
it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder,
whose seed is this?

I have loved you since the day that I saw you. Sitting
on the windowsill. Young and naive—you were young and mean.
But different. Careful, paternal, Dependable.
I pour out half of my heart in an SMS format.

Ignored with a wet wing. It would dry. I distanced
We distanced. I ate a danish to make me feel full. No fruit.
My legs shook. Your name made me quiver.
Next turn of the sun there you were. Standing

in the stairwell, happy, friendly, New.
I fell down a rabbit hole. I can’t get back up
Your friend… another. I’m waiting for you in a peach dress.
Your eyes are blinded by the smell of honey. Sweet.

It stings you. You run away.
You came home. I smell like vanilla and cinnamon.
Pushing my warmth away you crave the snow.
Chocolate, chocolate that’s all you are.

‘Swounds. I clean them too. Soft and patient, it stings.
The alcohol helps, I cure. You scratch at the scab.
****** Mary; I am not your mom, I take a sip.
Your trust in my hands, Your heart on your sleeve.
Awaiting my heart to dissolve in your tea like Vitamin C.