a letter to each of my wraiths,
spirits of insidious intent.
to those who could not stomach
my tempestuous volatility,
the ones who grinned
and ran upon learning
I am a storm with skin.

the phantasms, loathsome and odious.
to the scorch marks you left upon
the deepest caverns of my soul.
melodious, vile, cloying, abysmal.

I drank every honeyed word like a promise:
yet it was naught but fermented love.
these are the odes for the ghosts
of my past mistakes.

I'll paint you all in a ravenously
meticulous light. you will have
your fifteen minutes in the sun,
before I set you all ablaze.



i.

you need no title, you deserve no name.
if you ever read this, harbor no doubts
that this is your trial.

you make me wish for an exorcism.
after all these years, your demon still sleeps within the marrow of my bones.

you are nothing more than a disease.

by some act of paradoxical cruelty,
I am unable to hate you. you deserve
it, but it is out of my capabilities.

you were poison.
you whispered sweet promises
that you didn't,
couldn't understand.
you tasted like pomegranates
and original sin.
you held me up when I
couldn't breathe, believe
in anything, or even stand.

thrice you sent me back
to the abyss.
in the end, we ascended
the throne as rightful heirs.

did you know what
you were doing?
did it even matter?
did you happen to care?

I'd like nothing more than to burn
every inch of you from my memory.

I dream of you on your birthday.
on days and dates of significance
that you have long forgotten.

you are a parasite. you were my muse.
I cannot help but wonder if you
understand what you truly are.
you have done that which is
unforgivable: I hope it corrupts you.
hate yourself for me, as I am unable to.

pray to whatever gods you hold
that you never cross my path.
I will annihilate you with a single glance.
encase you in ice so you may rule
the underworld alone.
I am your captive no longer.

I see you fully, in inscrutable detail.
I want to be the one holding the mirror,
all too happy to show you exactly
what you have always been. let it destroy
you: yet even that is too kind a fate.

your abhorrence festers within yourself,
your diseased and poisoned soul
eating away at the facade you built.
I'm tearing it down and exposing
your darkest fears and sins.



ii.

you are a brazen ballad of
burning bravado.

I'm done purging and
dissecting my soul for you.

you are not an enigma.
you are no daughter of the sun.
you are transparent.
you paint yourself in ashes;
desperate for resplendence.
I cannot stop you, darling.
just remember: I am the one
who taught you how to shine.

yes, it is true: I burnt you
with hands of unintentional
volatility. since my
transgressions; I have fasted,
wept, and atoned my sins.
yet desipte agreements,
promises of your forgiveness;
I have all but brought you
my head upon a platter.

I weigh my words upon a scale.
I do not wish to harm you again.
I am Atlas, pirouetting across
an endless sea of ice.
I dare not shatter you
with thoughtless words.
yet you have become a
threat to my own health.

I want nothing more than to repair
the frayed edges, yet I cannot
sew the tatters of fifteen years
with a single spool of thread.
restoration is not a one way street.

two weeks ago I bore my soul:
the fragility, voracity, my
undiltuted truth.
I forgave myself for what
I did in days past, at your behest.

it is, and shall never be enough.
no. not for the opulence
of a goddess. yet you are not
made of fire. you are ice.

opaque.

you have been nothing more
than a mirage. at least the truly
deceased only visit twice a year.
they don't leave unhinged promises.

“we could rebuild, recreate,”
and other half truths
you weave and sell.

you know just as well as I do, honey:
words are wind.
they do not bring warmth;
foster naught but sweet sighs
that shall never come to light.

your translucency is a beacon,
and you are the only one
unaware of how easy it is
to see through you.

I am truly sorry.
I am finished ripping open
the lining of my bones
to the lamenting cries
of unanswered echoes.

if ever your luster returns,
bringing substantial proof of
warmth, commitment; your needles
and thread: perhaps we can
recreate our tapestry.

until then, the silk shall remain
as it is: ravelled, fading,
matching your soul in every
transparent, powdery aspect.

The warping of the walls,
fills my troubled mind with dread,
For in the neon of the night,
is the fear of being dead.
The shaking of the floors,
burns my mind beneath the sun,
And the gunshot lodged inside me,
was the race's starting gun.
Now the air is caving in,
and reality's a lie,
So I jump off this mortal plane,
and sink deep into the sky.
Suddenly, in darkness,
I lose all sense of control
And in the place where I should be,
is a tattered rainbow hole.

emotional depth and understanding it.
it shines upon when the past emulates the present.
to take the higher route, makes amends.
we forgive.

If it's meant to be
It will work out

I hope it's meant to be
Even if I have my doubts

Sometimes you need to wait & see
Sometimes you need to shout

All my life I've been loved and free
But never felt free to be out

It's time.
Now I let myself fall
out

greeted by the moonlight
embraced by the pain

losing hearing but gaining sight
in delirium, becoming sane

this is my night
this is my right

no longer any his or hers
not even mine or theirs

just this
just me

not even that


an entity

Valiantly I step—
Surpassing the lines they drew.
Captive I was kept—
Lastingly untrue.
I’ve scaled the walls that stand—
In attempt to block out the sky.
Each foothold precisely planned—
Where limitations refuse to die.

Not stopping at infinity,
I must encompass all.
Not like that of divinity,
But beyond any bounded call.
Do not say eternity,
For short it will have to fall,
No word, no thought, no feeling,
Could possibly surpass it all.

I’ve relaxed in meditation—
And explored the unconscious mind.
Then left all known perception
To see what was there to find.
Transcending comprehension
Leaving nothingness behind,
To witness the perfection
Outside of space and time.

The whiskey bottle is empty,
But I find the cap on the floor,
and give it away.
Somewhere, my closest family
sleeps, and I live
for the first time all week.
Ask whoever you want,
they'll tell you the truth;
the hymns of ancient people's
resonate in your ears,
and dead ancestors will look on
horrified.
Still, I am the medicine man in these parts.
But that was another life,
one of silent contemplation of the infinite.

Falling in darkness...
Arms out for help...the void extends its hand
Sadness and despair embraces me...
A blindness overtakes me...
For now I see the truth
The once fading light of a candle was the creator
The smoke that rose once gone...his ghost
For it fades into nothing...
Nothing from which it came from and which it returns...

In measurement of time man is a grain of sand in an hourglass as big as the universe itself. Every moment captured in memory makes that hourglass fill...Every failure...every triumph is another grain that falls....in time it will be covered by others...in time we shall all be forgotten....Can you tell me what moment in time did the first grain fall? What moment will be the last? Who will tilt the glass in the end?