"Can't you see it? Can't you see the heavens hovering above the horizon, sprayed in shades that blend and cascade where the ocean kisses the sky?"
"No, I...I can't see any of that. But please, do describe it to me."
"I want to, but I fear my words are weak. My illustrations give no justice to the sunrise."
"Oh, is the sun rising?"
"Of course. Can't you see it?"
"No. I can't see anything. Just shades of gray, shades that swirl like rainclouds, shades that blend between the churning semblance of shapes."
"How long has it been this way?"
"I can't recall...there was no singular moment when which I lost my sight. The grays just seemed to slowly flood the surface of my eyes. Like watching a polaroid picture develop in reverse."

The features of your face show sharply beneath the dim veil of the streelight. I find it hard to speak as your lips graze speech with such subtle descriptions of your time spent in my absence. I haven't been gone very long though I'm still quite sure I never left. It only seems that sunset has too quickly beckoned moonlight, and I never found the chance to slip between the shadows that commence therein. From the seperation between crowds unwilling to disperse I cast a glance in your direction to find the back of a head unwilling to turn. Consciously reluctant to tread upon the dawn of desperation, I swallow forcefully against the bitterness of pills that work to staunch the emergence of exiled memories. Before I am delivered from the repression of reality, I look back to see your face as you smile gracefully while emerced in entertained discussion with a seemingly innocent bystander. The eruption of unfaltering laughter reveals the purity of a beautiful face that never deserved to bear tears at the expense of the weathered ruins of the man I once was. The darkest of stormclouds assumes its place above our heads and I recoil into the recesses of artificial euphoria. It is too late now that the storm has come. I will be left alone as a shadow, condemned to walk against the harshest of winds. The only possession I will bear with me are the words that I record incessantly, a perpetual poisonous expulsion of prose and rhyme. I prepare to leave but falter for a moment as our eyes meet. You quickly avert your view and regain composition. Perhaps the time has come for my departure, seeing as I can no longer hope to stop the monster I've created.

the curtains part to reveal a boy worn by the travels of an unforgiving voyage. his course has been set by a pattern of time as senseless as the skipping of stones across unending oceans, passed on by the hands of a thousand silent soldiers. he is an actor at the expense of a theatre of apologetic eyes, forced into a role of relentless repression, a soul that merely seeks solitude, wishing to roam as a ghost between the words on a page. he is the hero of a tragedy carved into the walls of a subway station bathroom. the actress, assembled into the role of the heroine, has abandoned the actor and left the stage to settle as a spectator in the ocean of the audience, which waits with contrived prediction the ending of the final act. it cannot be determined as to when the story had begun, due to the frail memory of the first steps of infancy, but it can only be told of how it will end, undoubtedly through an apologetic action of martyrment, in which the protagonist will suffer his fatality at the hands of a hooded executioner. but perhaps hope still lingers in the held breath of the heroine, counting down to exhalation. as for the boy, he waits for the delivery of a delayed deus ex machina, and can only hope that after the curtains fall, his story will remain as more than merely a picture of a picture of a picture of a picture of a picture...

in its struggle with the sun
the moon is exiled among the stars
as it surges through the sky
against the shatter of daybreak

and you may find it easy
to become lost in such a human world
but you cannot stop the river's rage
until every drop of it is spent

close your eyes and let the poison run deep
and i will find it within myself
to teach the soldiers how to breathe
to teach the hungry how to sleep

but why must we walk against such winds?
when the winter that lies at the mountain's peak
can quiet our hearts
and leave us to stagger in the journey down

but i would much rather leave you
with this world in your grip
and i suffer the silence
of a closed casket service

for when i am buried beneath a bed of soil
i will not weep
but smile to know
that roots will grow from whence i sleep

and perhaps someday a tree will tower
from over an unmarked grave
a tree that will age through undying years
and teach of what i gave

but what i must beg of you
is to continue to dance as the golden child
and to look back
to the scenes that flash across a broken projector

and if you've not gone too far
remember the gifts that i have given
and the skin that i have scarred
and smile to see my life
as a constellation, an exile among the stars.

and perhaps i will return someday but for now i am content to settle in the ground, as part of the earth, and take with me the peace of the black that i have carried with my all this time. for i know that when the darkness takes over and the animals sleep that i shall rejoice in such jubilance to see the sun rise once again.

Infants of the Earth

and the sun sets on another pair of starving eyes
a thousand lost children, praying to the skies
trading curiosity for regret
turning in their candy for cigarettes

these are the godless children
rejected at birth
nutured in nature's bosom
infants of the earth

and the young ones fly their tattered kites
beneath pale broken skies
and when in their bed during restless nights
await the acidic sunrise

and the young men rise to the hunt and thrill
as the wind howls it songs
their tongues await poisonous pills
and they depart like a wolfpack at dawn

as the soldiers who cry themselves to sleep
shut their eyes on foreign skies
their children dwell in recurring dreams
of them coming home alive

and as for the unheard women
with such high hopes and bruised hearts
that they claim their places on the ladder
and their voices sound from the top

and as for the lost boys
clawing through their youth
one hopes they may step from their father's shadow
and rejoice to find their is no truth

but for all of earth's godless children
whose legs were made to run
that they'll see the world will merely turn
and realize they cannot chase the setting sun

their lives skim such merciless timelines
as the babies are born and the elders die
just as lovers burn through their beds
and the sun scorches through the sky

but now again the young ones gather
beneath the sun's waning light
to release their caustic kites with laughter
and watch them spin in endless circles out of sight

There was once a girl, a worn and weary girl who dreamt of being pure once more. There was field that seemed to stretch for miles not far from the house this girl had grown up in. Some time ago, a boy's footsteps used to trail that field, his fingertips grazing the tips of swaying grain. She had barely known the boy at the time, though their paths had crossed with frequence. It was only when she had found out his name that the boy was swept from the town with the stray leaves of autumn. And so with numerous seasons having crept up her limbs and having weighed her down, she returns to the field, to stay. From sunrise 'til sunset she strips the soil of the little fruit it bears, pleading with the earth for forgiveness. Her name was Summer, and she could not bear to understand why the boy had gone, though she could still smell his scent, the scent of the season, a ghost of the soil on which she stepped. But as the days passed and the winds of the west were reborn, she began to understand why the boy had to leave, and she herself knew she could not stay. But she would never forget his name.

flowers grew from the dead marsh
already wilting
all screaming

sweet symphonies
grinding slowly
from the children's rusted bones

the retreat

and even now you just look so old to me
it's hard to believe your time is almost spent
but it's okay i guess
by the end of the day
there is little left to do but rest

you were the last of the wolfpack
that once roamed these woods
bloodthirsty
but now the full moon's last call
is beckoning you over the horizon
leaving me to explore these woods for myself

but we've always sang this song
for every scarlet sunset
for every open casket
we pushed out to sea
in hopes it will carry with it our most sacred memories

so i hope when the time comes
the fire wont be too high to leap over
and my sorry sunken eyes will tell you how much it meant to me
behind every candle's glow

but i'm glad you hear the music from all the way downstairs
cause i played this one just for you
it's not a goodbye, just a postponement of time
but it's strong enough to feel
the turning of the tide

so rest softly, my prince
and let me whisper my farewells
and remember
the sweetest dreams are procured from our fondest memories
i am confident your answers will come to you in your sleep
do not hesitate to lay down your weary body
for it's time for me to finish what you've started
until it is my turn to make my last strides through these streets
until it is my turn to lay down my body, to retreat.

stolen dreams

We'd awaken to find morning cold and spent
bagged eager eyes constantly searching
quickened breath so fatigued
but with focus so concise
from a night spent
crawling home, cursing the clock
our bodies blessed with broken thoughts
inhaling the exhaust of a tarnished city
where our heroes have risen and fallen

trainrides spent trembling
beneath winter layers
recalling nights youth flourished
with hopeful eyes on that distant april
awaiting that welcoming spring wind

to dance and to dream
laughing lips beneath sparkling eyes
dare to determine the essence of the moment
taking back that which has long been ours

to expell the memories
of nights spent in ignorance
we, the everlasting children of the stars
dare to capture the beauty in each taken breath
to rid ourselves of the nights spent doubting
from the highest hills we'd scream at the sky
daring to run barefoot on spring blossomed fields

lips in the dark
daring to whisper our forefathers words
"this is the moment." we'd smile
and let nothing else be said

the march

the frozen morning dew clung close to the dead grass
as my hopes for a swiftly returning spring withered
so i continue to walk
my steps tapping that familiar winter beat
i begin to hear the whispered words of a prayer
solemn echoes that dance between my chattering teeth
i tell myself to believe
that it truly is only a matter of time
before i reap the fruits
of the dreams i've sown

you see
the days don't end so early now
the sun has chosen to stray above the horizon
which is where my eyes choose to stay
with the darkest of days behind us
still i keep my hopes
to outlast the most solemn of seasons

i as well cling to that horizon
looking twoards a night spent
in winter's strangling hands

absinthe

and who knows of what we have trusted with one another
as the flame lights faces aglow
we begin to speak of the mysteries that plague us
the inner emotions locked in the recesses of our minds
and wonder with curious eyes
of the darkest depths we've fallen
as our hearts sank til our feet touched ground
until the self is a barren plain
and phantoms of emotion sweep the darkened dust of prairies long since infertile
the harsh winds of time thicken our skins
while the stars hang above us
like nightlights in our childhood bedrooms, beckoning us to sleep
but still we struggle to stay awake, echoing the recollected words of poets past
"miles to go before home" we whispered, counting down as the snowflakes began to fall
and in the holding of our hands we grasp life
for it is through each other that we develope our strength and thicken our skins
though still not without the memory
of the lighter days of summer,
remembering our youth in the familiar streets of our neighborhoods
seeing our conjoined lives from above, viewing the serene simplicity in our absorbing affection
as the sun shines through reminiscent scenes
we view ourselves on projectile screens
only barely recognizing the ghosts of laughter now sweeping this dusty plain
and although we may truly always be alone
for now the warmth of a smile bestows safety
unknowingly, we have weaned ourselves from reality
and slipped into the crevices of wonder
our only downfall our relentless searching
our only hope the promise of the future

the rose waltz

and in the evening, they would dance
light, in the air, as gravity lifted from their hearts
and soon she would whisper to him
as she turns to pirouette
and he, falling to one knee

as the silk of their skin begins to graze
the circulation of their steps bring them closer
and promises unfold from her lips like paper butterflies
as his steps turn he brushes her side
as the snow begins to fall he knows she is pure

the streams of amber liquors
quicken this dance, revolving, unraveling
at last as they turn to kiss
he is pushed away
and left wondering
left to drift as a ghost in the shadows
behind the sway of a scarlet curtain
and once again realizes he is left alone

as the curtain lifts he finds the setting alit
upon the stage, given time to race
his memory replaying the steps of his dance
cursing his pretty words beneath his breath
he begins to bleed
as the lights above the setting start to fall
and he sees every empty promise break
as the bulbs shatter at his feet
still he continues his dance, alone

but as the steps wear on
and his voice begins to tremble
his purity flows from him.
he realizes she is there
but no longer his
standing in the crowd, she beings to clap
soon the assembly erupts into applause
and he simply looks upon them sadly
for he hates them
and he knows he is not the same
but he does not hate her
and she knows she is his only weakness

as his steps finish
they throw him roses
as the poetry he bleeds from his mouth runs dry
he can see his breath in the air
and he simply looks upon her sadly
he realizes they will never dance
as they once did
and she averts her eyes

he whispers "the deed is done. the dance is done."
as the scarlet curtain falls and softly sweeps the floor of the stage
his body falls as well, lifeless, to the floor