Silent hill casts a shadow on the moon,
Even beauty has a dark side.
Pale face aloft in freckled night
Feeds me with random musings
As I meander along the quiet pasture.
Excavate the fertile earth and
There you’ll find sterile treasures
Outliving all that’s alive.
I stumble on my clumsiness and taste
The dirt on my tongue.
Strange how life’s ambrosia is so
Distasteful to its offspring.
Just like love, a cloying sweetness
That turns bitter over time, and
When it’s gone, an aftertaste dwells.
Still on the ground, I roll over to look
Upon the freckled night sky.
Fascinating how constellations
Are merely imposed order
On senseless disorder.
I bet the stars laugh at our attempt
To find reason where there is none.
And then there’s the moon,
Indiscriminately shining on even
The foulest of creatures, underserving
Of its generous light,
Although without the sun, it’d just
Be a tenebrous chunk of rock.
Alone, we’d be just as unglamorous.

the wooden hinge creaks as its rotting frame grows weak
a delicate hand reaches into the void, brandishing into the cold, open space
reaching for something, anything to grab onto
the bitter air latches onto each finger, burning dry skin with flames of ice
the boy’s hand jolts back, as he blows on it with his relieving breath
his unspoiled heart and untampered mind
they convince his short legs to strut back, away from the unknown
so he returns to his comforting quarters, and in short time forgets this day entirely

years later, the boy is now a young man
the splintered door is all but collapsed from its hinge
with his courage further developed, he walks out into the cold, open space
he scans the area, squinting to his left and right
in a matter of seconds, a gust of wind picks up and begins throwing pieces of the white blanket every which way
the bravery that once existed quickly sinks to fear
his vision impaired, the teenager slowly begins to walk back
as he stumbles backward, he feels the tips of numb fingers scraping against his ankles
he now begins to run blind, his liquid tears turning solid before they are able to roll down his cheek
as he trudges through the frozen land, a hand manages to clasp onto his leg
in horror, the young man looks down and sees hollow eyes matching his gaze
“help"
but he jerks his leg away, and smack! he hits his back against the crumbling door, rolling back into his comforting quarters
he is safe, but the door no longer stands to protect him

many more years pass by, and a grown man dons a full beard
without the door to hold back the outside world, over time, the sharp air has slowly turned his once heated body very cold
lonely, the man willingly walks back into the space, knowing what waits ahead
he takes his steps further and further until he begins to feel the field of hands that lay above the ground, flowers without proper care
the dead establish a firm grip around his feet, and begin to pull him below the earth
unnerved, the man takes in the blank space around him as he descends lower and lower
the rays of the sun glint golden speckles onto the ground
and the reflected light attaches itself to a small body approaching the man ahead
he screams, crying
warning the short figure to turn back,
“no! not now! not this soon!”
he is up to his neck in the compact snow
the restraint of the snow causes his speech to break,
“y-your.. innocence..b-bui-build a door”
and then, he was gone

vibrations reverberate
strings and chords collide with paintings on the wall
stage lights oscillate through the dim concert hall

in that brief moment your profile glowed
innocent aqua eyes that froze time
the singer sent sparks through the clouded, smokey air

the most harmonic note settled on your lips
gently weaving the couple strands of hair behind your ear,
i lean in to make music

parting clouds over the field of wheat
split the gray into a sea of golden rays
bright enough to leave even the blindest man at his feet

passing wind slithers by  
carrying with it seeds and soft cries
tears from the protector of all the crop
the lonely scarecrow who stays planted
his tune the most melancholy of acoustics
a tranquil coffee shop

birds circle frightfully overhead
for they do not know their avoidance leaves the scarecrow all but dead
he who never meant any harm
but who's appearance raises cacophonous alarm

cursing the sky, the scarecrow shouts
yet, the scarecrow will soon get his wish
once his stump dries he will be free with the coming drought
so as the farmer prays for rain,
he questions God's whereabouts