untitled.

with woods like webs,
this spider is fed.
the city, myself,
weaves words
for the dead.
with wisdom, or
wizardry, the light
still misled
and guided
these words to
its fangs
where I’ve bled.

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amour.

so much for love.
was it the hours?
the eerie eye
upon the wall
that wore the world
down
to nothing
more
than a momentary
sense of solitude?
the longing
for solitude?
maybe a bit of
brevity
could behold
the holiness
of
all its weariness.
or its wary bliss.
either way,
i

know the eye
still
tends
to
seep
its
way
past
its
plaster . . . but

only for a brief,
and

oh so subtle

moment

or
more.

Vulcan.

were the void a volcano,
what would become
of
a dream diluted
by the rupture of its core?

an ill revelation
in a ring of fire,
a flux of fear, or
the gradual eruption

of atmospheres
upon the haze
of the mind’s
Great War?

The sun melts into sulfur,
and drains into the day
like magma steals shores;
senses evaporate into ashes,
and I suppose a new season

                                                                                           is

Born.

 

 

 

Sonnet 45

Aside from fate, it seems with dreams we ride
the enigmatic wave — much like the moon
shifts sails upon the seas to break the tide,
and lead astray the mind to time’s lagoon:

The castaway ashore foreshores sublime,
with all its paradoxes, slips away
between two palms too ill to pantomime,
for paradise will spill like sand someday.

So wherefore would a dream discern itself
from fate, if fate, in fairness, freely flows?
A dream will die; ’tis dust upon a shelf —
yet life, she sails away and never slows.

In life we’re led with still longevity,
to bask within its wistful brevity.

It was often I awoke
to concrete as my cage;
each crack bare as steel,
protecting
all ability
to drown me in my spirit
where dreams appear sour:

my posture quite penniless,
hung over the world,
nearest to heaven than hell,
like a slouching monk
in utero of the universe’s
ever present stillness,
daring to peek
into the depths
that slit where I slept.

I thought tomorrow
would never show.
The concrete said otherwise.