A deadlier man than him
told me once that
Earth cannot sustain
the decadence of
the pursuit of
happiness, cannot
bolster the crippling
pursuit of love
and what it takes to
maintain it.
But I told him
that to keep
things from falling
apart, we had to
pick up the pieces,
glue them together
to form a mosaic of
life past, present, future.
What else can we do,
but disintegrate? mosaic


December (is a sky uncharted)

grey winter sky
Born atop a barren hill,
amidst dormant trees–
their gnarled fingers protecting
the babe–the fleeting sun
sparked, flashed, then died.
With a gust of wind, the
snow rolled o’er fields,
meadows, forests, ponds
and settled in my sight.
The city is far from me.
There are many names for
what we have.
We can call out to one another,
but we have no words, just
feelings, just touches.
I praise the silence;
I cherish you.

Diluted morning, a time for vespers.
A time for night to slither to
the other side, but slowly, please
ever so slowly, I beg.
I step outside-the breath coiling
from chapped lips-and seek
deliverance from the malaise of
the dollar and coin.
I want to reach into the expanse
and pull the colour, spread it across
my body so that maybe, just maybe,
I’ll be a muse unto myself.
But, with the smoke and breath dissipating,
I return to your warmth and watch you
sleep ever so peacefully.
I’ll take that over anything.

Nocturn (Open-eyed Dream)

Farther and farther the edge of darkness climbs;
the ruby-chested moon ascend the throne,
and diamonds from a world beyond bejewel
the velvet cloak that surrounds my plain of being.
It is changing, but the stillness remains.

I stretch my hand, hoping to pull a piece
of night from the veil, hoping to
remind myself of the souls I left to
their devices. I can feel them: moving,
meandering, floating but never knowing.
Come to me, I call, but the language
of the living becomes faint to the dead.

Darling, beckon me from the shadow.
Darling, yes, darling there is a dawn
approaching. I think you see it as I
do, I think, I think.
I wait beyond the cold mist;
drink of the dew and you will find me.

A Snowfall

I stand behind the house, behind the windowpanes that gleam and glisten with ice blanketing the grass. I am in solitude; I look into the whirlwind, beautiful, deathlike and envelop myself within my listlessness.

I feel no joy, no sorrow, no discontentment or contentment-I am simply emotionless just like winter and its children: snow.

The snow is gentle but bitter like my countenance; the overcast sky is greay and bleak like the fall of humanity. I am apathetic, dreary, weary; my life is temporal like the snow in its death.

Evergreens, junipers and maples are garbed in royal robes of white. And there are dead, dormant trees that haunt as if they were indignant shells of demons. All that stirs is the zephyr that wisps my hair, the tendrils of vibrancy deterred. There is nothing more than the silence of serenity.

I feel the excruciating chill as it pervades my fragile body. But, despite its unrelenting fervor, I will not acknowledge its damage.

The fragrance of the pines and junipers are pungent yet inebriating as its robust scent emanates in the frostbitten air. Then, the sickening-sweet stench of damp, decaying bark saunters nonchalantly into my nostrils, making them flare in subtle malcontentment.

All that I taste is the air’s brutatlity as I breathe it in; it hardens my tongue and tortures my teeth as the cold, frigid air is inhaled. And as I slowly relinquish my soul to despair, the winter is comprehensible. Nature is master; it kills only to resurrect.