¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
i found
her alone
seated amid
sumptuous shelter
crafted of a most clement
terracotta watching
as those chaotic
worldspun towers
whirled around, piercing
through vehement welkin
then stretching down
to ground level.
they went
weaving through the coils
of an ethereal copper jungle
and gifting her skin
with bruises
as they
fled—
each one,
the sputum
of a septic recess
that was ceaseless
in its diction
of ruses
in her
head.
some
people
called her
the dark passenger,
yet she talked herself idyllic
using only stolen words.
only
twenty
years old?
what a mess!
several life events
had her under
duress
that augural
September day.
she was depressed
yet she was
pressing
answers
from the void
beneath the drop—
a top-to-bottom
nonsensical
blessing;
funneling logic
behind such curtains
had her stressing out daily.
she grew arrogant and twisted
with the shifting of seasons;
she grew humbled
and wary
for the worst
of reasons.
her life
had become
a shell in every sense,
but it made sense
in the utmost
of naïve and
senseless
respects
...
then
I opened
my mouth
to speak
again.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I felt the rain coming.
A persistent wind
took swing
after swing
at my lashes
leaving behind
the occasional
hint of mist
(just on the tips).

In that moment there,
through then-rosy cheeks,
I began to experience
an unfelt appreciation
for something
I couldn't quite
put into words.

I felt a feeling
of sheer delight—
a feeling of comfort
and of good measure.

In that very moment there,
as I looked up
beyond the clouds
that now eclipsed
what no one else could see,
I felt peace.

I could hear, faintly,
the chilling rasp
of the far-off winds
that approached me.

Though I felt my body,
weak and frail,
I felt my soul
digging for truth,
steadily unearthing
something abstract
and nameless.

Reality then made
a swift pass
over my eyes.

I stood there
now galvanized,
though it all
left me feeling
a bit faint.

A surge
of blood rushed
to my head
like waters
through the cleaving
of a river dam.

I looked down
to see that I stood
on a spot of bare dirt
where the centipede grass
dared not grow.

My fleeting bewilderment
streaked lightly across
what I saw there.

The feeling
in that moment
had become a vapor,
which quickly escaped
the purgatory
into which
it was invoked.

I found myself
back home,
and though I was not
fully satisfied,
I smiled.

The cold rain
now covered my hands;
my wet fingers
were like bait
to the breeze.

I slid them
in the pockets
of my black leather jacket
as my smile
quickly turned to
‘brrr’
and a sudden
uncontrollable shiver.

“Was that it?"

I turned about
and hurled
a fervent wish
across that fluid sea
of sod grass.

I heaved
an unwearied sigh
as I then fell back
on the tin siding
of the wall
behind me.

I looked down
at my feet again.

One of my shoes
was untied;
its left lace
did lie atop
a muddy graze
upon the ground.

I looked up
and stared off
into the void
above the horizon.

I listened
to the sound
of the rain,
still so eager
to fall lightly
on the centipede.

I listened
to the sound
of the wind,
still so resentful
of restriction.

I listen
to the sound
of the automatons
that patiently
raze the forest
not too far
from where
I stand.

I wonder
what I could say.

The words
come to me:

"Thus
abounds
the nature
of wolves!"

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Without the ruts in life,
we wouldn't appreciate
the pavement.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*The author of a web of lies
lies in wait

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Sing of my deeds,
dearest viceroy,
and I'll think as always thought:

"What a tune—
a flightless bird what's
wings were chewn and apt to rot!"

For 'neath red skies
from the dawn of day
to eves a'marred in the brine of May,

you're e'er and o'er
and ebbed in rays—
a serendipitous luster!

O prithee, Lord,
this heart's desire!
Allay the mint in minds of men

and grant the
steadfast lee-side
of truly terrifying ends.

Consume the wounds
a'peak the pate
and **** the Lion's pride asunder—

*fetch your lantern by the dint
of thunder!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Some
people say
there's only one
thing to remember
when digging yourself
into a hole, and that is to
"drop the shovel." I say that we
all must dig our own graves, but
"the deeper the grave, the higher the
hill, so I'm diggin' myself a mountain!"
We're all given a shovel at birth and dig until
we cease in death. We are all gonna die one day,
and there's no need to understand the mountains we
make by climbing them. We must dig as deep as possible.

-----

The size of your                                                                         hill is
a symbol of your                                                                    legacy;
the size of the hole                                                          is a symbol
of your sense of duty                                                 to that legacy.
     Those who persist to                                             dig 'just enough'    
can afford to have one                                         foot in the grave,
but leave nothing but a                                      molehill; they are
just waiting around to die.                            Those that use their
time wisely on their path to                          death and persist in
their creating something much                  greater will establish,
           feverishly,      a      lasting
                \   legacy. /
So, I ask, which    stays    more
            noticeable  on the  sinking
                       horizon . . .

                                                       . . . a mountain or the
                                                             ­                       hole next to it?