She always laid out her paints
right before bed.

The oils nustled up against her thighs.
Some of them,
cradled in tiny white baths of containers,
lay in the open space
of her folded legs.

"Just in case, something hits me in a dream, I want to wake up and run and be ready at the right moment."

The carpet is rough
and stained with the shrapnel of dry paint
that *****
your soles
when you walk through
the living
room
to the
pale kitchen,
while she gurgles and
pops
in her sleep.

All the time,
the paint gets on the floor,
she paints in thrusts.

"You're going to have to pay for this mess, you know,
I'm not paying to have this carpet cleaned,
it's not my ****."

Condescension and guilt
spread through your lips
numbing you
in a fog of arrogance,
that you perceive
as good-natured caution,
while she hurts the canvas
thrusting harder.

She
paints
clowns.

Tall, fat clowns,
with long tentacle fingers,
bellies
out to                             here,
and tiny people
curling in black oily slicks at the corners
under the pressure of the clowns.

"Why the **** do you always paint clowns?"

"Why can't you just let me be?
you don't know anything about art."

The bed
is tiny.

***
is soft,
methodical
and
pre-emptive.

"I'm tired of stepping on your paint at night,
I'm tired of my feet
looking like a rainbow."

One night,
you come home smelling
like grease and fried chicken.

Your button-down
with the slippery gold name-tag
is dabbed
in the chest by leaves of oil
and
shadowed in the armpits
by
strokes of sweat.

Your manager kept talking about:
"You need to improve
your checkout efficiency,
you've been lagging lately."

Dropping the heavy black
flak jacket
with it's flare of orange lining
on the floor,

You see her,

with her arsenal of paints
arrayed at her criss-crossed
limbs
like the implements
of
a war.

She looks up
at you,
black circles
under her eyes,
an easel
holding up
a canvas of almost minsicule drippings of fabric.

"Oh,
I see you're still there,
great."

You walk to the kitchen
and open the fridge,
there's a half-gallon
of 2% left.

An apple
slowly crumpling into itself.

And a bottle
with a swig of orange juice left in it.

***** always leaves a swig.

You take the bottle up to your mouth and swallow down a trickle that you can feel in your bones.

"Don't drink from the bottle."
she says
with a nodded head.

"I can do what I want,
I bought it."

She looks up.

The clowns
she says:
"Are the type of people
that gain power,
the ones ruling the world,
the ones who become *******."

You laugh like an idiot
"People like me."

"No, you're not a clown,
you're one of the tiny ones."

"*******."

You want to wash yourself
of the stink.

Drain it all down into the gutter,
let the stink
sit there.

So you take a shower,
while she stares at the white cartridges
of paint,
and a conflict brewing.

The Sheepscot’s always changing.
The tide comes in.
The tide goes out.
The sun comes up.
The sun goes down.
The fog rolls in.
The fog blows out.
The Sheepscot’s ever changing.

The Sheepscot’s always changing.
Lobster boats come.
Lobster boats go.
They haul the traps .
The throw them back.
The sailboats tack.
The sailboats jibe.
The Sheepscot’s ever changing.

The Sheepscot’s always changing.
The people come.
The people go.
The seasons come.
The seasons go.
The centuries come.
The centuries go.
The Sheepscot’s ever changing.

Teal equinox drifting over the valley
tangled in a crystal chain of stars.

Ghosts of the universe spiral endlessly.
Mind in a shell of illusions we’ve made;
iron, earth, and air.

Dawn’s haloed sky stretches over the mountain locked in a veil of silver fog.

Jewels of infinity cradled in our hands.
Knots of wind come unraveled by the night;
salt, sun, and gold.

I fall for you
cause my heart needs love to brew
and i am aware
but i started to care
you are heavy fog of the morning
and i am of a kind that blooms in spring
I need you
to love me
cover me in this dew
I can beg you to fall
but i can't hold you at all
you'll wet everyone
but own by none

Inside the network of humanity,
There is a swell increasing,
Bubbling to the surface,
Clawing through sand and gravel,
and mud,
They are the sacred and pummeled hands,
riffling through the cosmos,
By and by making their thirst increase,
For dominance,
For sheer arrogance,
For all things wholesome,
For the coming of reason,
Dipped down by the ever restless,
Drawbacks that pinch their sides.

Then a time will emerge,
The face of the clock,
Shrouded in smoke, fog, and
mirror.
A specter of radiance,
draped in neither human
costume,
or of drawbacks; pinned wings,
Suckling a Dionysian Principle,
relishing the illicit,
and honoring the
perfect existential
burden,
Thus making assured this gift, this
upheaval,
Obsolete, dangerous,
misunderstood,
To the grand choir and,
velvet dungeons,
Slime pouring from an,
everlasting faucet,
His fate is surely carved into the
hieroglyphic walls,
in madness and panic,
swelled a deep tranquility,
The etchings formed poetry,
formed testament,
formed testimonial,
formed remedy in martyrdom,
Others were closed to strange intensities,
Others sat and smoked on their patios,
Watching the worlds collide,
Rattling the great fabric gong,
seizing with pleasure,
omniflourescent fireworks,
of absolute brilliance,
The twinkling dust falling,
flickering as
they fall,
Becoming imagined demons,
sacred omens,
reassurance that things,
derive from all things,

What had been said and done in the past, now is the wall keeping them from taking a look at the real veiled horizon that captivates the ethereal mystery of the child's wonder.

Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Life.

As the clock strikes
midnight in a perfect world,
they only want to know one thing:
What does your soul look like?

In the beginning, three sat together
in darkness, sweating and chewing miraa,
talking of unlikely things and dreams
while ******* down Tusker.
It was refreshing to be nobody,
soft baiting the line
and wasting time
gambling shilingi.

The sun outside set sooner than expected,
dipping well below the low buildings,
so they ventured out into the cobalt
blue evening, not thinking too much
about who might be listening,
speaking bravely as their words
and jokes slowed down beside
shadows beyond the city lights.

Laughing more, the three hopped on
a matatu at Kimkambala, smelling
the final wisps of dinner in each
passing village, watching as a purse
got pulled just paces from the road,
until they got off by Fort Jesus.

Further and further, they treaded home,
walking alongside the Indian Ocean -
Through the thick, green night, almost
fog-like, tip-toeing by an old man and
his flashlight; he slept soundly on
the steps of that corner storefront.

The three whispered their goodbyes,
and headed separate ways.

The youngest of them slid easily between the
narrow alleyways, and finally through braided
black bars. With the turn of a treasure-chest key,
he was back in the courtyard, walking past the
stripped bones of yesterday’s catch, where he
decided to make his permanent address, today.

He had dwelled where dreams are born,
but only for a day, and searched to find
sunset in the tip of a cup – when the
sunset was enough. He knew
that it was too much as he asked
a stranger to fill him up to the brim,
and told him not to worry, he would
say “when.” He had worked hard to
lay down his guilt on the altar, and not
return to gin, making this decision:

He decided that being
born to homeless winds
doesn’t mean that you
have to be homeless, and
as he climbed the broom-swept
maroon steps, up to the roof, he
breathed deeply. How pleasant
it was to look out onto the sea,
reflecting the pearly moon,
so beautifully.

He'd be twenty today.
Unfortunately, that truck had other plans.
Instead, he'll always be fifteen,
thirteen days away from turning sixteen.
T-***** on the corner from our town to the interstate.
A turn everyone has made one thousand times.
For his memory, only one time will ever be remembered.
A classmate, a friend, a teammate, a brother.
The list goes on and on.
None of these can ever truly capture his fire, life, joy.
There still isn't a day that I do not think of him,
and how unfair it all was.
For a small town of 2000,
we still feel the effects of that tragic day.
When everyone knows everyone else,
and you flip on the news to see things like
"teen killed in crash",
phones light up like wildfire,
everyone calling everyone to check in.
To think,
all that pain, misery, grief
could've been avoided,
if I took the time that day,
staying at the school,
and lifted with him.
Maybe then,
he wouldn't have gone home,
or at least,
not that early.

That night, everyone met at the football field,
and wept.
and wept.
and wept.
Taking styrofoam cups, interlocking them in the fence
to spell out a final message.
"WE <3 U  T-BAIN #11 2013".
You see, 11 was his jersey number for everything, and I mean everything.
He played basketball, football, baseball.
You name it, that dude could play it.
Because he was our Superman.
And 2013 was supposed to be his graduating year.
Instead, a vacant chair with a cap placed ever so neatly
and a gown draped over was all we got.

The service was held in the gym,
there was just no where else to go that would fit enough people.
As people littered the gym,
a giant projector ran clips, showed pictures, played music
but it just wasn't good enough.
I wanted the authentic guy, not just his image ran on a big screen.
I wanted Tanner back.
We all did.
Instead we had the service.
Where there wasn't a single dry eye in the entire O-zone*,
even the sternest of faces softened up.

Two weeks ago,
which was four years and two days after the accident,
we held a charity two and one mile race event.
Wristbands, shirts, glowsticks.
I can promise with one-hundred percent certainty,
that my community has not, cannot, and will not
ever
forget.
"Always remember, never forget" pasted over and over,
on the sports team's shoes, football sideline, wherever.
Instead, this trauma has brought our tight-knit town
closer together than ever before.
We rallied behind his family,
and together we were able to overcome
this melancholic fog
that gripped our town at the throats.
Instead of being glum about his passing,
we celebrate his life,
cherish his memory.
I'm sure
he wouldn't have it any other way.

One foggy morning I went walking
Down the pathway to the sea
Cool and dreary
Very eery,
Something, Someone followed me.
I hurried forward never turning
Was I afraid my past I’d see?
I stopped and looked and she was there -
The Woman with the windblown hair.

Standing still, just like a statue
Windblown hair was all that moved
Cool and wary
Very scary
Truth, or something she must prove?
She turned around and bid me follow
To a clearing in a hollow
Soon I knew why I was there,
The Woman with the windblown hair.

Long years ago; forgotten summer
I met a woman with long hair
Very ****
Apoplexy
Caused me stand quite still and stare
To my surprise she then approached me
I stared, but she did not reproach me
Her beauty was without compare -
The Woman with the windblown hair.

She took my hand and bid me follow
To a clearing in a hollow, on that steamy summer day
Sun resplendent
Very pleasant
The grassy spot where we did lay
I loved her then, and tried to hold her,
The evening and her voice got colder
“We’ve had this afternoon to share,”
The Woman with the windblown hair.

“But I’ve a husband; he’ll soon be home.
You’re young, with life in front of you
I was only
Very lonely
I’ll ask forgiveness when it’s due”
She left me, with a final kiss,
“Respect me; Never speak of this."
She left, and left me standing there
The Woman with the windblown hair.

As I recalled those ancient memories
She turned and stared with eyes that burned
Both eyes teary
Very weary
“My husband never did return”
Suddenly the wind was shifting
The sun came out, the fog was lifting,
The Woman with the windblown hair
Was no longer standing there.

I stood alone for what seemed hours
What had happened? How was I supposed to feel?
Ghostly meeting
Very fleeting
Yet it seemed to me quite real.
I felt that I’d been taken there, and
The Woman with the windblown hair
Had spared a young boy’s future life
The boy who loved another’s wife.
PwL  5/16/15

I fell away from myself for just a little while.
Creeping through the rye
and sleeping in the foxholes scattered through the hills.
I pushed away the ideas
of satisfaction
and romance.
Wafting through the air,
I was a perfume of the mountains.
Pine and wet earth, I let nature reclaim me
while I waited,
slumbered inside my skin.
When my mind had cleared,
the fog of the valley,
lifted,
a stranger found me sleeping beside the brook.
And with a calloused hand
and a rough voice
he lifted me from the dirt.

A friend for the spring,
possibility lies just over yonder.
Sing with me a while,
while we find our way.

Here we are at a crossroads
Separated by clouds of silence
We've exchanged laughs, stories, and condolences
You carried your virtues on your back
And I held my shortcomings in my hands
The horizon calls out your name
Waking the moon that sleeps in your eyes
Your light has guided us through the midnight grey
And this trail winds down to a story's end
Fireflies guide you home toward the moonlit sea
Where thoughts and prayers take the shape of water
And boats built from your benevolence
Take you to rest with the roots of your dreams
As I accompany the fog through woven forests
I echo your humming in this silent night
Building the distance that was written to be
I walk, lost in reflection, toward an unknown


And quietly,
my soul follows you home

The darkness of the fog
the flowers withering away
Once so full of live
Now sadness above towers
The Shows not over
Each drop leaves a scar
Soon it’ll look like a bar

It throbs and aches
It makes me remember
The unseen within
The taste of her lips
The wicked love you give
God forgive my heart
isn’t love the law

A bruise a cut a bit of blood
Hits the ground
The coldness escapes
I’ll clean up soon enough
The once blooming rising flower fields
Burn with my admire for Battlefields

Nightly I wake to the tenderness of knowing
I’m made of blood and bones
My very lifeles exilar
nothing more than a useless knife
Helps me out in the eye of the storm during my darkest nights

The pictures above
The memories in mind
I recall the beauty of your smile
Why my heart beats
Out of sync with my will
The darkness crawls in my skin
Its home is my spine
My bones may bleed a nice
place to stay away

Maybe after tonight
An uncertain event
takes my life
my dreams
my kindness
I’ll be sorry for going so soon
“I tried my best” it’s a lie
may I lay and die
without a dark thought in mind

I am tired, physically
Feeling my mental exhaustion.
The rhythm of my life takes me
Where I would rather not go:
Places embraced by a fog of fatigue,
While I experience moments of weirdness.

It taught so much, about myself, about us.
It took so much, of my time, energy, and personnality.
Is it enough, and does it worth it ?
Because giving myself to others is scary....
Am I able to retrieve what I gave
When I am free of responsibilities ?

I am not certain, because I feel loneliness.
I feel that there isn't that many people like us.
I feel we are left to ourselves, and being not able
To ask for help, when it comes to recomposing.
Recomposing ourself. Resourcing our batteries, so,
When our weekends end, we could go back to helping others.

Two brothers march
off to war

To win a battle
to settle scores

They keep in step
Left-right-left

Drums, not hearts
their minds bereft

Through the fog
the 'enemy' lies

While back at home
their mother cries

Drums beat faster
as fog clears

Programmed to ****
for many years

Brothers see demonic eyes
fear screams- BOOM!

Who shot first
no time- assume

Two brothers aim
and shoot across

They've missed their mark
the guns, they toss

Dash together with
great speed

First to stab
and first to bleed

They lie together
attached by blade

Victory is lost
to a sick masquerade

the tracks disappear into the fog
the mist dampens everything around me
i hear a train horn in the distance and then
it's silent again
the dusty, dawn blue sky hovers hesitantly
above the cloud i'm in
the train horn blows again and
i see lights through the fog
and dissolve into the watery air
the train rushes over the tracks with
the weight of a million tons
it crashes into my ghost and splits it
into a million slices

You were the sudden taste of champagne on my tongue
you gave me a taste of my future
and gave me courage
making me explode with every feeling imaginable

You were the choker on my neck
restraining your emotions with a hint of humor
changing the past & making it present

You were the pencil in my hand
erasing everything I thought I knew about love and coming up with your own definition

You were the view from my window
giving me a peak into a curious, beautiful new world awaiting me the chance to explore

You were the fog after the storm
unknown & mysterious
causing me to wander

You were the puppeteer
putting on a show
with me as your puppet
only to leave within a matter of time

june is a fist of botched odds
plodding along... a rube of wise fools
cumbersome.
the long frost of a brief dim
witness to a harm gone
ambergris.

you seem less full.
an entire galaxy of wane suns
lonesome.
it's your mask: my masquerade rules
under some malignant
lush fog

and asked for this.

Matter Hill
is what your mind
with your blood and flesh
and your spirit and eternity
and your ideas and vibrations
show you
and tell you to go, you say


So is that Hill
Matter Hill
is that where you want to go?
You want to crawl there
you want to creep and climb there?
Is that Matter Hill
is that where you are headed?

some say there’s life
some say there’s death
and there’s even a guide book to get you there;
and some say the trees burn there
and demand you cast a finger for each tongue of flame

some voice calls
some mystery beckons, you say;
you heard some hideous scream
in the smooth wet of your night
and a prophecy who must go to the Hill
to Matter Hill

O is that Hill
Matter Hill
is there where you must
no matter what, you must go?
Because you heard a voice tell you so:
Go to Matter Hill
no matter what
And you heard the inmates
of the Soul Sanatorium
saying:
There lies a Gorgon there
she will turn you into stone
And you said to them:
Do not look into my eyes
for I will turn you into ash

But what does your heart say?
What does your mind say
in spite of all the claims
and the declamations and revelations?
O is Matter Hill
is that where you want to go
with your wild eyes
and blood-***** fire-smoothed hair?


Is that where your sweetheart lives?
on Matter Hill?
does she whisper **** tales?
does she hover like a Mystical Being
and beckon you
in fog and mist and in moonlight
and also in the darkest of nights?

is that Hill
Matter Hill
that ****** blood painted hill
is that where
no matter what
is that where
you want to go?

Her soul's poetry
Written  in deep dark ink,
Gushing through her veins
Etched across her bones
A tale untold

The world rebounds on touching her surface
Nothing ever leaves a mark
Or atleast
That is what she makes believe

Breathing life ,
She walks into the crowded room
Hidden behind her jokes and laughter.
Comedy weaving up the tragedy .
Humour , the only link to her sanity.
She breathes
Broken,  unnoticed.


The world brushes past her touch
Blind.
Oblivoius to the struggle.
Her mind, toxic to her soul
Her skin, her veil.

Yet, her pillows talk of red swollen eyes
And endless nights
Gazing at the moon
Half hidden beneath the clouds
Reflecting light
To cloak the darkness seeping within .

She draws her blinders shut
While her guitar weeps her wounds
The cadence of misery
Into the world of rhythm, she slips.

When shall the masquerade end ?

She walks away
Into the fog
On her own

Brick after brick
A fortress she built
And locked within her own incarceration,
Short haired rapunzul
Afraid to let the knight reach within .
vows of saviours, never heed.

Her facade, flawless
Yet not deceiving those little eyes
Searching for the truth beneath the illusion.
Decrypting the inscrutable dissimulation.

To those pair of eyes,
Slowly fading into oblivion
Lost within it's own ceaseless blue
Seeking for the line between the black and grey.
Her voice , liberating .
Finding its way within the chaos,
Resuscitating.
Giving life to a long forgotten voice
which whispers,
"Take off the masque, You're beautiful. "

In a room among newspapers from far-away climes
like a tame animal like a marvelous man you love yourself
                                                        ­ and sit on the edge
     of the bed with your palms on your knees
or absolved of birth and death you stroke your pumice-stone
                                                    ­                                              cheek
until the sun crosses the other side
next to the photograph of the happy child who is piddling on
                                                              ­                           a blue shore
Then every thing returns regroups
as though in a boiling fog in which things are mended
among the obscure plantations of chance And alongside
a woman carefully hangs out the clothes of the drowned lover and
                                                             ­                             speaks to them
the one who still seeks you in the black bones of the
                                                             ­                                   butterflies
And while you wander lost through the mists of a powerful
                                                        ­                                         manhood
past the spades left on the fresh molehill
or gaze at the swaying of the two stakes ****** into the shore
or lie down on the ground and the wind covers your face with
                                            thistles brought who knows whence
a great sadness brings back the lunar landscape of her tired
                                                                ­                            shoulders
and there are no more words but her whisper are things which
                                                                ­                                        settle
everywhere filling the ripped silence of the train's screech
her whispers are the water gathered over the prints of her
                                                                ­                  soles after the last rain
but a simple turn of the key is enough for you to be able to hear
the slow flowing of time by your dampened socks
or the heavy breathing of the roots
and again you dream the blue shore  at the end of the river
on which we ruminate our enchanted abandonment

Gellu Naum, Vasco da Gama and other pohems, Humanitas Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007

This is my oasis in the fog.
I was baptized in these waters
and I don't even believe in God.
But now;
my sanctuary is tainted barely
as you throw your rocks in my pond.

After three or four the ripples still,
can't even touch the shore
like an infant child reaching for their feet for the first time.

Clutching ... Grasping ... ******* ... Gasping ...

Searching for the lady bugs to fight against these aphids.
How could say this isn't where the rain hits
when I've never heard a single one of my songs on your playlist?

...Memories fade like a fragrance...

Or so dreamt the cool cat that slept
on the warm hood of a suburban in his suburban hood.
Born in a summer haze and died just the same.

Will you come sit by my side at the piano
and criticize the way I turn the pages?

Because kings are rulers but can't measure a thing,
all you can do is sit and count your treasure in vain.
Heavy lies the crown but don't let it weigh you down.

I feel oddly godly in this mortal skin of mine.
Sure I bleed like a human but my colors are true.
Not crimson red or royal blue.
Hell I mean, they aren't even cowardly yellow or envious green,
rather transparent; unseen.

Now I know how it feels
to splatter and shatter
like raindrops on the windshield.

Too intense and immense I can barely take it,
I quickly recoil like the foot that breaks forth
from the warmth of your blanket.

The Cannonball Express 4505 bound for the Dixie Line
. We depart from Atlanta, GA to Memphis, TN
. The Cannonball express is what every train should be. 
We will be climbing Old Smokey Mount
Then passing Hook’s Corner overlook
. All you have to do is glaze at the landscape and the picture took
. The puff of smoke from the engine, and the railing sound that the Cannonball has a name that stands tall
. A name mighty among the rails
. The Cannonball Express has history within its own trail
. No matter what, the Cannonball Express always prevailed
. A time when it was dark, the headlights extended the way through the dense fog into a fierce thunderstorm in making its mark
. The Cannonball Express is known for being on time
It is usually before any passenger can finish that sip of wine. 
Nevertheless, the Cannonball Express with a mission in being in charge of the rails
. The speed of the train, but all you will see is the last car streaking by as a tail
. It’s a never ending story, but a conquest to preserver. 
When it comes to the Cannonball with a name in showing no fear. 
The Cannonball from then, but stories that continue from when
. As the Cannonball maneuvers along into Memphis, it is the Cannonball in history in where it belongs.

2:03 am 1/07/16*
Stream of consciousness
My head is exploding and voices are screaming in my head
I lay here in a frozen bed amongst frozen sheets and icy skin and my frozen mind begins to gnaw at my insides and claw and claw and claw*


My nose is cold and hands are shaking... Breathe in breath out
Moments of clarity and disparity
You took my hand when you should have let me drown
My room is the same temperature as the stars outside and I'm here staring out my window watching my hot breath fog the cars and I'm screaming at the hidden sun asking why
it always sets behind the tall trees and I wonder
Because if I was a sunset id cast along the sea... I cast my rays until I made sure everyone could see but then I realized.... And I made myself sick
A humble sun never
wanted to lure
A humble sun was there when you needed something to hope for
But is dark
The sky is cold
My skin burns
The pain has once awakened me
but the wind has seeped
into my veins
numb
Lifeless
To hell they said
But what for....
Darling,
it seems I'm already dead

Exceptional grins of jagged pearly whites
adorn skeletal masks
suffocating your mangled breath
as curled fingertips scrape against dirt.

Flesh, charred and soiled
hangs brilliantly from serrated bark.
Bleached bone barbed at the spine
where charcoal dragons dig infected beaks to feast.

A single mountain of shadow stands
before lacerated skies
a portal of inviting mayhem and madness
concrete pathways twist to its starving mouth.

Horned beasts hobble on disfigured limbs
dragging their sins across heated ground.
Hungry for souls dipped in blood
the scent of rot disperses like fog.

Rickety witches stir boiling cauldrons
with ossified tendrils,
saliva oozes from cracked lips
as you're watched from a distance.

No escape from the blackened sludge
as it wraps on the nape of your neck,
gurgle out pitiful screams of fright,
welcome to halloween.

It's funny, those mirror images. Small bracelets of macaroni-turned jewels,
Costly and pointless. Plastic race cars that mom and dad bought me
Zooming around and breaking vases that once
Held cigarette ash. Flowers wrote an essay on lung cancer,
A peer who, on a high night, was put into the vase.
Flora lungs are surreal.
Imagine a flower the shape of me: my blue hair and eyes the petals and bud,
My body a stem and lungs are the leaves,
Ripped out of my sternum and strewn into the antigravity that surrounds me.
A mirror image in another world,
But somehow not the same. Like nuns and ****** both
Screaming to God as their **** are groped and abused.
Collisions with the coffee table tip the coughing flower and let sailors tug on the ropes,
Sailing on the sea of liquid ash and sing "yo-no yo-**" all the way to the white carpet.
A memorial. To the woman who was saved hereby flashing lights and muffled sirens,
The drugs were too heavy.

And then we sit playing scrabble and watching the news. Oh that poor girl.
It doesn't matter though. It is far enough away to only think of palindromes to click in the
Plastic squares, a perfect fit for a triple word score.
But the score doesn't matter. It is what the word represents.
Reviver: one who brings back.
A necromancer? The zombified critters under the stairs because you felt bad about killing them.
They ate your food, but you conducted a mass ****** with that sweet poison that crystallizes
Their blood. Their parallel selves are still alive aren't they? The realms are separated by a thread,
Nothing more, so why must they be dead?

Why must they be characters in a movie? Everything is a lie, even the
Letters laid on the game board.
The words we speak is a made up language, the god most believe in
Is a figment of imagination. And so is mine. They are just creatures
Written in a book by drunken sailors, man himself,
Or warped versions of a goddess created by hags, high of of the leaves
Vining in their flowerbeds. Clouds came down because of the warm brandy and
Smoke from their pipes, polluted and *****.
Fog does not belong here, this Christmas, but at least it will mask the brick wall that
Everyone seems to crash into.
It is a theory of course; people with glass skulls and hollow brains won't live through it,
But it is worth a shot. No one knows whether you will be crushed, or the wall.
On the other side, the other half of the world, the mirrored side,
Exactly the same as the one behind. Nothing new, but everything to see. You haven't looked until
You've seen the opposite of yourself.

the spot on the moon did pass as i saw 3 cats
running in my eyesight running from the black
then I saw a rat.. that jumped in front of me
crossing to the other side ...hungry for its feed

was this a feeling or somewhat memory
of living in the past a previous live in me
or maybe luck was on my side ...the spot on such a moon
a sign from someone looking down.. upon my life of gloom

the sign did make me smile as it all came as one ..
a thought into the future ..a new way looking on
a fog that wouldn clear my eyes had been so long and gone
a new way now into my life ..the old one memories on

In twilight's hush, where our sighs softly fade,
Beneath your gaze, my lonely world begins to shift.
Your lips on mine, my shy resolve will melt,
As fragile walls of fear begin decay.
With every breath, our trembling bodies transform,
A silent vow to love — endure.

Through stormy nights, our passion will endure,
As the fog of past silence start to fade.
Your hands on my thighs, my spirit starts, transform,
Unfurling petals as my defenses shift.
In the heat of us, like hail, inhibitions decay,
Like sun-kissed snow, slowly, we melt.

Dawn breathes, and into each other we deeply melt,
Our roots, explore, a stronger love to endure.
What once was fear, now honeyed sweetness, decay,
As shadows of old hurts begin to fade.
With every challenge faced, our love learns to shift,
In full bloom, as seasons gently transform.

Years pass, and still our joined hearts transform,
Time's trials make us bend but never melt.
Life's rivers carve new paths, yet we still shift,
Together, building new havens to endure.
Though youthful bloom on skin may softly fade,
Our passion feeds on rich and fertile decay.

From this rich soil of necessary decay,
We nurture love, watch it grow and transform.
The first spark of desire refuses to fade,
Into each other’s depths, we willingly melt.
Our bond, forged in fire, destined to endure,
As steadfast as the stars that nightly shift.

Like tides that breathe and sway, our moods may shift,
But our deep core of love resists all decay.
This flame between us, constant, will endure,
Each touch, each glance, continues to transform.
Two souls, forever destined to softly melt,
A whispered union nothing to ever fade.

Though time may swiftly shift, and surface beauty fade,
Love's gentle decay helps us deeply endure.
We transform, melt, forever as one.

Trudging through the fog
I carry it across the years
For every slander and slight
I shed no weary tears

My bones creak and buckle
My skin flays and flakes
I’d cross the plains of hell for you
It won’t be my spirit that breaks

This weight is mine to carry
Flickering days repeated
Under all the layers of wear
You will find me undefeated