I am the wasteland.
My chest,
A cavity shoveled empty,
Filled with infinite space,
Devoid of blood and bone,
Is host to cosmos and ghosts.

And where I once had heart,
Black holes,
Punched out and multiplied,
Empty and expanding,
Aching under the weight of eternity,
Riddle the cavity where my soul once lived.

And shackled to the weight of fate, I watch as:
Shovelers and boxers,
 Blind and unaware,
 Consciously choosing not to care,
 Speaking iron words of weaponry,
Turn my body into a canyon.

And as this scene is comes to a close.
My death,
Foreshadowed early on,
Also barren and filled with despair,
Beckoning and luring,
Is clearly laid out on a horizon.

And though it's true I have been hollowed out,
The void,
Absent hope,
Blank and staring over the human race,
With only wisps of thought to run my head,
*Is the comfort I've learned to be.

Statuesque
Watching
Rage in her veins
Justified
Growing

Restless

In forgotten realms of borrowed dreams
You and I were kings and queens
Of stars and open air

I sit on my bed,
Gaze soft and unfocused.
Wrapped in the remnants of a shirt you left behind.
Or maybe I stole it.
An air conditioned breeze sends a chill through over-sized armholes that expose the flesh of my *******.
It wakes me from my hazy state.
Glancing up, for a moment I see you in this shirt...
But it’s my own reflection
in the mirror directly opposite my bed.
Disappointment washes over me and I let my gaze slide to the window.
Up, I see the summer moon
as the ghost of you fades from the forefront of my mind,
to its rightful home in my subconscious.
You and I are simply not to be.
Fated in another life,
But now our lives are intertwined and intimately connected to others.
This dream is not mine,
nor is it yours, to have.


It is time.
To bury a memory,
a hope,
a dream.
I watch, from the edge of our six foot trench,
As my own hands throw the first earth on an unmarked grave.

My mind paces,
stalks in circles around thoughts of you.
And the others.
I have concluded that I am unlike
all the other humans.
I’m not sure what it is
that makes your species so.
Perhaps it was ingrained
in the fibers of the earliest of lonely
and jealous people to stalk this planet.
You, and they, are preconditioned
to find one mate,
to pair with one soul,
to love monogamously.
Until the last breath rattles
from your aged and withered lips,
Or maybe just the bitter breaking
of your preconceived infallible bonds.
No, I have the anomaly of loving,
truly, simultaneously, loving
more than one of you.
It’s a curse.
And it is MY curse.
It’s true.
A forbidden love,
so passionate,
for more than one.
It is this multitudinous torture,
to be riddled with the guilt
that accompanies living in this one
cannon timeline.
Why can’t I have a parallel universe?
A paradox of many lives and love?
I am spliced so many times,
Fractionated, less than human.
Like a whisper of what I once was.  
Several panes of glass that don’t quite       touch
Thin, fragile and a false face of totality.
The space between each, is the overwhelming vastness of eternity
that blinds in lonely blackness.
Every sheet is a separate piece
of what once was
me.
And the galaxies separating each,
spread farther with the passing
of light-sped time.
I know the love I feel is real.
It will not waver.
But also, doesn’t matter.
It breaks my heathen heart
to have spun these silken webs
of deeply bonded love onto others.
Entangling them in passionate emotions that are absolutely unobtainable at worst
and just out side of reality at best.
What does this make me?
Am I not a human?
Is this an evil, inside of me?
Am I demon?
There is no answer.
And there is no hope of forming
an inception with my victims,
Nor an existence for my species.
I mourn in lonely secret solitude.
I am the first, and last of my kind.

They are both withered and grey.
Still, they wait.
The rooms here, and there, are silent and the halls are barren.
The paint on the fence has faded and all but chipped away.  
The moons have passed and so have many faces.
With each waning phase their bodies have weakened.
But something grows, so slow and steady it's hard to notice.
Still, they wait.
They have died.
In stillness, they wait.

As Leaves Go

It begins, an annual dance.
A ritual older than conceivable time.
I have no choice in the part that I play.
My role decided before the first speck of green whispered into existence from the earth of which I sprouted.
I was born at the cusp of light, in mist, in the breath of dawn.
I was bathed with rain,
Nurtured in the warmth of the sun,
Protected with shade and
Blossoming in the light of the moon.
I’ve been secret refuge for numerous, nameless, invisible, fragile souls.
I’ve witnessed life hatch,
miracles become reality as birds stretch their wings and take first flight.
I’ve also seen the tragedy and heartache of those who’s wings couldn’t carry the weight of this world and they were born only to die.
I’ve been a harbor for these weary, wing-ed creators.
The ones who’s burden it is to keep us alive.
And I’ve climbed the wind and reached the sky.
And now, as the last warmth of summer is swept away and the chill begins to last beyond dawn,
Season demands sacrifice and branches begin to sway.
So, as I begin to dry, my color rusting, a shiver makes me take up that ancient dance.
And as infinite others have done for eons of eternity,
I must let go of this borrowed perch that was never, ever mine,
As leaves go.