Clouds of pain

cover the wounds

of the heart.

Innocent tears fall

like gentle drops

of rain.

Today, I am walking the path of the infinite self.
It is a road that stretches forever inwards and outwards.
I unravel,
I cross the rubicon,
I contain multitudes,
The door in the sky opens.
A hand reaches down and pulls me through it.

I become a face in a sea of many:
A swimming ocean of everything I’ve been and yet to be.
A dream floating on the sleepy universe of impossibility.

I accept this smallness.
Then I reach inwards and offer a hand.
I become whatever self I require.

Tears welled in the mourning of everything unwritten.

The mind's starvation is the stagnation of the imagination.

Survival has been no serenade.

Desperate was the Hand,
To the Fist,
To the Door of Introspection,
To the Mind, to the Darkness.

Pounding, pounding away,
The broken bones,
To the dust of flesh.

A moment before forfeit,
The Great Gate collapses.
Bursting into a torrential tide of Madness,
This scornful swell swam deep into the Heart.
Its suffocating chill, mirroring the growing Dissent,
Resonating all of discord in a living Thought.

Hope's last stand sends deceit fleeing.
Rushing waves, shuttering away,
From the pathetic kindle.
Such a sad flicker, this bastion of salvation.

As with All Things, this too falls.
The Darkness, the Madness,
The Door to all Doors,
Consumes the Light.

What does it mean to be in the moment?
To be present, truly
For your mind to not be wondering,
Second guessing,
Pausing...
For when I ask myself, "am I present?", I realise I am not
For if I were, I would not have asked
So how can I know myself to be present,
If I cannot ask?

Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree.

Carp swam in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Rolling in vapid indignation,
Violet trees bloom rapidly
Seething succulent felt petals

He assimilated deep in the foot of his
Nuzzling slab. Solid shadows stretched
Below. More true to him than the infinite
White heat that cast them in vast strokes.

He sat face-down, between two
Scrunched twigs; bent like
Mantis' claws. He held his
Eyes-open, absorbed into
His own shadow, now crisp.
Not fuzzy and undefined.

wet dirt
adhere to me
sand of the earth
mold me into being
your perfect being

(an inexistent being)

mother
nature
embrace me
allow me into your center
i will burn at your core
to become nothing
once more

The wind writes letters in the language of  
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.

The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,  
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.  

Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:  
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm  
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.  
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.  

What does she know of the weight  
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,  
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—  
collects tarnished seconds.

The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.  
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels  
time’s hem.