Over the cascading hills
I dreamed of Egyptian blue waves
crashing down through the
azure sky to part the sea
of our broken minds

When the wildflowers
dance violently amidst
the golden light,
I seek the road
in the dreary night

I ride the waves, and part
the sea
hoping it'll bring
universal love and ancient
truths closer to me

In the eye of the storm
I found your glistening ones

And in the midst of the chaos
We sat hand in hand

And watched as
Destruction enveloped us

the place I
dream of

belonging

a battle between
dark and light

people with weight
trying to

become enlightened

music with meaning
creates a background

where everything aches

voices dance and
bodies bend

chaos is choreographed
and life and death

tell their own stories
immortality stays young

by feeding on
generations of

disillusioned youth
even the sun has

dark spots that
can’t be explained

The night whisper it's languid melody streaky by the screams muffled by the distance.

I’m panting while I walk through the putrescent streets adorned with decaying corpses
Feast of parasites and carrion birds

The tinkling of the stained glass announces the arrival of Death. It’s scythe touches the delicate glass of the churches, forming a funeral melody that freezes my bones and consumes my mind.

How many times I begged on my knees like a weakling for Death to take me along, how many times I killed to alleviate my sick thirst; waiting, wishing that the punishment of the God they speak of would fall on my cursed existence and remove from me the eternal non-life.

The hot taste of blood still pulse in my mouth
Repulse

There’s nothing like a
writer when he hits
his stride.
He’s like a horse in the
homestretch,
thundering to the
finish line.
He’s like a dog in
a fight that has his
opponent by the throat .

He is hope for the
*****.
He’s the lock on
the door.
He’s the power in
the ****.
He’s the fossil in  
the rock.

When he pounds out the
word and the line,
he’s like a lion roaming
the Serengeti, or like
the guy with
the whip and
the chair that
makes the silly looking
circus bear do what
he wants.

He’s the snow on
Christmas morning.
He’s the heart in
the newborn baby.
He’s the master and
the world’s his slave.
He’s the force that
makes the river flow.
He’s the tree for
the monkey
he is dope for
the ******.
He is wisdom for the flunky.

He is Don Quixote to
Dulcinea and
Peter to Christ.
He is wings for the
Dodo bird and
claws for the cat.
He’s the rage in the night.
He’s the first light of sunrise.
He’s the dew on the grass
he’s the sail and the
mass on an unsinkable boat.

It’s unthinkable that he would  
do anything else but
write.
He is sight for the  
blind man, he’s a tongue for
the dumb.
He’s a throne for the king.
He’s what makes the robins
sing at the first sight
of spring.

He’s the ring in the bell.
He’s cold water in hell.
He’s the fire, not the smoke.
He’s the castle not
the mote.
He’s the forest
and
the trees.
He’s the bumble in  
the bees.
He’s the rumble from the seas.
He is life not death.
He’s the pulse and
the breath.

He’s the makeup on a clown.
He is sound for
the deaf.
He is  
bereft of nothing when
the
scandalous
sun sets.