Whenever I resist,

the world pulls back harder,

a gravitational force I cannot control;

it tugs at my soul like a dead weight.

Perhaps it is, and I am, or not?

Though the questions

materialise like blizzarding snowflakes,

the answers are less forthcoming,

one cannot see the clouds in the background,

but one can feel them.

When life is lived as a ghost,

the rest of the world a brazen solidity,

I fear, for then the chains are strongest

and the heart they’re bound to, least.

They say pain is in the mind,

yet my mind is vivid:

Is this the writer’s curse?

Perhaps it is, and I am, or not?

Twice a Lie

A muddled middle, a gut feeling

Cause external confusions

The mind powering thought

The heart driving reaction

A palaver of misdirections

Inhibits both extremities

Neither sure of the other

And both unwilling to change

There is a me in the mixture

A corporeal being 

Unsure of sense’s accuracy

Debilitated by a palpating core

And so back to the gut

Those unquestionable drives

Go with the instinct 

And damn heart and head

They Both Lie

Drifting Away

Eternals 18 copy

Faceless, I resist the passage of time; the stars made multiplied through my obsidian maw. I see all there has been and all there will be, yet feel nothing. Nothing! Time will do such things to those who fight eternity, who refuse to pass. I do not refuse, I’ve just forgotten how to get there.

Ghosts some call us, others claim shades. I feel a greater affinity to the latter for I still hold some residual atoms of self. Unless they are a dream, of course, which would make me a liar, too.

Inexactitudes, I heard one call us, warped truths. I feel warped pulled in all directions yet hanging by an unbreakable thread to each. This is not me. This is not what I would wish. This is no life for a melancholy soul.

Am I truly dead? it is the question I ask each day. Am I truly no more? my most frequent plea. Someone, somewhere must know the truth, but the road to that somewhere is barred.

So here I shall remain in subtle shades of smoke, drifting, ever drifting, until I drift away.

This is What it Means to Write

In spilled ink are truths found
As we bleed across pages
Stanzas formed from our pain
Paragraphs, our experiences
Waiting for those rivers of us
To congeal into certainties
Certain kinds of truth
Yet like the blood in our wounds
They merely crust
As imperfect finishes
Upon imperfect souls
They scab. They hurt
This is our destiny, pain
This is what it means to write


Scattered, we roamed the lowlands like seeds in the wind

waiting for a smattering of soil and our roots to take hold;

there was never nearly enough.

Lifted from the homes we would have built, we searched

the skies for memories of that which we’d lost,

that which we’d forgotten: Home.

The word echoed through the valleys

to smash upon highest crags, only to cascade as shaled truths.

The wind grew bitter then, cold even.

Birds of unsure feathers pecked at our shared epidermis,

a people made one by necessity; we bled for each other.

Higher we rose through gathered wills, a pact made true,

until the clouds were left in our wake and heaven beckoned.

There on highest dreams where the air was thin and

our dreams were set to fail, HE came for us in glowing

anticipation of repentance; and we did, as did HE.

Windblown, he called us, children of the unsettled pastures,

born to ride the winds of independence:

we ride them still, but always on a golden tether.

Under My Skin

Like the north wind in winter,

She chilled as she killed.

Like a summer deluge

Driven into naked flesh,

The heat precluding all but

Necessary attire,

She saturated my soul.

Like an unexpected heatwave

When wool was what you’d worn,

She sweated from every pore.

Whatever the conditions,

Whenever she fancied,

She got right under my skin,

And I loved it.