The Weaver

I try to cross the differential crevice I despise
only to be entrapped in the middle of two worlds.
There, in helplessness, the tilt of reality threw me
and the magnificent Earth shifted five degrees.

Now I try to back step to my comfort zone
and find the architecture of my love
was faulty and seemingly untrue to the residents.
Where have the beams gone; the weeds are still.

Now I stare into the awning of the arcing wave
and my slackened limbs freeze me before the fall.
At nine point eight one meters per second squared
the honesty of the drinks comes upon me.

All that’s left of the wooden palace are ashes
that swirl in the chaotic wind of disparity.
I lay in a prism of faults: lies, miscalculations,
infatuations, and the laws of the universe.

Here is the haunting of an unfortunate partnership,
and as low as the breeze can touch the soil I find
the lonely spider who seems to share a similar fate.
Weaving excess webs for one life, and now they’re dispersed.

A Poet's Desire

I once rode horses that could canter
like a whirlwind, but I never wanted to.
The lackadaisical fluency of drifting
let me get lost in the story of the journey.

Sometimes in slowness I have time to see myself.
Halted ideas sit empty in a train yard where they
were never allowed to travel the tracks.
I let them die there, because some thoughts are too hard.

Missing the beginning when I get the ending;
I wish I could do it over a million more times.
Every book on my shelf looks like a dusty tombstone
for the story that has lived out its life in my heart.

I rush through the words, and lie still in the wake
of the reality I find myself in more often than not.
What a paradox to make haste in love, and to
prolong suffering whenever he sets in.

My idle fascination with all things fantastic
turns the regularities of the day into grayness.
My identity seems to change like the seasons
yet I find that my soul never wavers; I’m still me.

In a cavity somewhere I rest my weary hands.
I happen to feel good, but I also feel lost.
I reflect on my passenger seat mentality.
Every mountain range that’s ever existed has been forced.

To find love is to find the fuel of the stars.
It is to see the world as fantastic, and it is
to gently sway in the warm breeze with stretching fingers.
In the stories of others I dive with my heart.

Turn to the page where the ending never ends.
I left my dreams there, and I hope you find them.
Perhaps I will lay on a sundial forever, but
I hope to do more than tell of the time.

Still Before Truth

Yawning like the sunless sky
underneath the guise of dawn.
These nights flee into the grave
where all we can do is recall them.

Your fingertips are warm like wax
that gently slides down the burning candle.
Maybe we’re all figured out before conception,
but it’s hard to imagine the world that way.

Each day fades into a purple eve.
No matter where I decide to stand
I always see the face in the sky
which seems to watch me intently.

I’m no worse off than anyone else.
I can at least survive without vice.
You are what makes me higher than the stars.
I’ve got to get out of this place.

Knocking on the wispy door where the truth
keeps itself as a single solitary bullet.
When the door swings my mouth is agape.
Maybe we all see these things coming, and

we choose not to move.

Here or There

I cannot say I was ever here.
A heart set on experiencing every detail,
so if fate had a hand I was never real.
You’re a mediocre poison, and I need you.

If a sorry could mend these holes
then I’d carve into sky lengthy apologies.
These grinning masks are breaking
when the stoic reality arrives.

Race in the garden to be the first
to arrive at the willow tree.
Now choose between branches
that linger in such vast quantities.

At the sea I lost my virginity to the world,
and the shores held together by my roots
seemed to be fading into the foggy uncertainty.
A decision I can’t make is sinking into my heart.

A picture is host in personal reminiscence
graciously allowing the sensations of nostalgia.
A beetle climbs the tower and it remains
in a never ending cycle of motion.

If only my heart was lean then it could
slip between the arrows tied to tongues
and the swelling of knowledgeable intent
would disperse along with dreams of freedom.

Decisions vouch for the need to expand.
I am the camel and with effort I drudge on.
Within me is the a cocoon, and if I stay too long
then a husk will be all that remains.

Werewolf 1440

Where is the waning moon
off to on a night such as this?
As she cogitates her path I
am swathed in the darkness.

My eyes are red for her pale
face, so full of stark enchantment.
I stalk the shadows of her form.
The insects touch my hands in sympathy.

As if the verge weren’t enough
to tempt me; I now watch her
from the gates of Jealousy
where I am barred away from rationality.

I scribble notes on the walls
that I will see, hear, feel, and remember.
I am a wolf clothed in a distorted pelt.
My claws hide under the scrutiny of day.

Teeth and eyes that can’t be shut out,
and a tendency to lose control.
The fires of covet keep the steam rolling.
I want to be her, I want to be her.

Flesh is nothing more than a guise.
Supple lies covering a beast of control.
And now she turns and sees me.
Even with intent I am rendered inadequate.

I am the wolf, she is the snake,
you are the Hunter, you are the Hunter,
and who will fail to sheen in the moonlight?
What my deepest fears are; I am.

Sending

Solid steps towards solidarity;
the slack jawed sphinx stares.
Goliath of knowledge wordless
and lacking a riddle to stump me.

The freedom comes not from the owl.
The freedom is borne by the mule.
That is why the hog woman cannot
charm me with her mounds of gold.

The only belief I have is in things
that people refuse to hold inside.
Myself is a vessel to carry a fragile
soul that would diffuse into the air.

Despite the brokenness of flesh
and the dormant monster inside my
head; I manage to function with
certainty that transcends reality.

Ego is the ambrosia of giants
that step on the weeded Earth
and believe that they are worth more
than the mountains they hide behind.

I sleep in the chambers of ascension
where not a cricket stirs and colors fade.
I become the breather and the sleeper.
I lose my humanity and explode from my head.

As small as a bird I stand at the precipice,
and I look down at the plummet ahead.
I spread my wings to the stars, close my eyes,
and in a marvelous silent second I am gone.

Flicker, Flicker, Flicker.

I cannot begin to understand
how to kill the spirit you left
inside my heart; it festers and
spreads into every recess of my body.

The key to the fires lies beneath
the mattress we slept upon
and without you there I sweat
in the throes of nightmarish visions.

Racking pain sends tremors through
every nerve leaving me with the wish
that I would never feel another thing;
if only to release me from the sorrow.

My heart has become ensnared in your
house, and I have been locked out.
No matter how much I beat upon the wood
my protests are as hollow as this illusion.

Let me go, and let me be free.
I am a bird trapped within your grasp.
I will suffocate and die if I am not freed.
Booming bombs are going off in my chest.

Fade into the past and let the sepia
cover you in my mind, so you become
nothing more than an image of before.
I need to be allowed to control my heart.

If refusal is your only response then I will tear
myself free, losing pieces in the process.
Parts of me will be gone forever, but
I will regenerate what is needed to survive.

Soft thunder echoing in the chambers
of my sterile and gutted mind where
all thoughts of you once were allowed
to reside; the pain is breaking me.