21. The Poetic Eidolon

•July 18, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The place was made of stone and wood
And as we walked around it,
We heard many voices.
The past has entered the present in this place
And fear has grasped many,
But I know that these ghosts
Are just misunderstood.
Perhaps there is no sentience:
Just a recording that plays itself
Over and over and over.
Maybe it is weak;
Perhaps it is even strong,
But a poet
That takes solace in secrecy,
But desperately wants to be heard
In a twist of irony.
And so it reveals itself
Only to those who would listen.
Maybe there is some of it
In all of us.

59. The Condemned House

•April 25, 2012 • Leave a Comment

A thick coat of dust has settled on this old house. Broken cabinets, rusted pipes, water-stains in the sinks and tubs, there is dust over all of it. This house reeks of rotting wood and mold, its silent state of decay has gone on for years. A great silence permeates this place, only slow summer breezes through the broken shutters or the creaking floorboards make any sound now. In the basement cellar there are dead things. Small rodents and bugs, rotting and feasted upon by flies and maggots. The smell of death is strong in this place.
It is hot. Sweat stings my eyes each day and most times I find it hard to breathe. The weight of my days oppresses me and so I can no longer leave this place. I walk the hallways trying not to disturb too much dust lest I suffocate painfully. I do not want any more pain. Most days I spend in the cellar with the dead things. The stench is powerful but it is less stuffy down there, and you get used to the smell after a while. I can think there, I can wait, but there is little light.
There is blood on these walls, stripping the wallpapers and soaking up the hundred year old dust. Pools of muddy, dark red blood in the corners of this sad home of the forgotten and damned. Nobody belongs here.
This is my home, and I have nothing to offer you. I beg of you to leave and find better lodgings.

58. The Aberrant Escape

•April 12, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Life is strange here
in this world of dreams
I do not know real from pretend
up from left
down from a long corridor
that I slowly move through
looking for lost hopes
among broken mirrors
in which I see
that my hair is a mess,
and as I try to fix
the loose strands
of my life slowly weaving in and out
of some strange semblance of
what a life should look like
everything branches out
and the leaves fall to the ground
and over the course of a couple weeks
they dissolve
and in their destruction
they nourish
but in those same weeks
I am left weak
and my eyes are strained and bloodshot
from being up too late at night
but to lie down
is no better than the truth
because the truth is
my soul has left my body
like skin torn from muscle
to search for who knows what
in mistier places and tree-lined mountains
and I do not want to eat
or sleep
until I find it again
but still I dream.

57. Make-Believe

•March 26, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I am only an average man
But sometimes I like to imagine
That I am a great warrior
A slayer of beasts
The bane of evil things.
I am only a human
But sometimes I like to think
I am a great dragon,
Haughty but wise,
Feared by some,
Respected by all;
Or maybe an angel
Bringing counsel to those
In need of counsel,
Light to those in the dark,
Hope to those with
Nothing to live for.
I am not very learned
But sometimes I picture myself
As an ancient and wise wizard,
Brought before kings to guide them
Quested for by adventurers
For sage advice
And maybe an enchantment or two.
Each year I grow older
But sometimes I pretend
That I am a wood-sprite
A young trickster of the forest,
Benevolent yet devilish,
Wishing no harm upon anything,
Just laughter.
And in all this make-believe,
Maybe I really am
What I wish for.

16. I Remember Every Summer

•March 21, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I remember every summer:
Each day warm and speaking softly
Of the years that stain our lives
With bright paints, flowing oils,
And yes, blood.
I remember every summer.
The early ones, with no cares,
Just warmth and the outdoors
Running, swinging, and growing.
The summers that helped me escape,
From nonexistent toils,
Where I continued to run,
And grow.
Then the ones that I slept away,
Not always unconsciously,
But nevertheless summers wasted.
Summers where I no longer ran,
And had forgotten how to grow.
Finally came the summers that meant something,
At least while they happened.
There was happiness in each day;
These summers woke me,
And I began to learn again,
And though I did not run,
I went very far.
I remember every summer, and
Now are the summers
Where I grow more than I knew I could,
Run more than I’ve ever been able,
And think back on the past summers
To learn from them
And make the summers of the future
Ones that I will remember.

15. Changed Memories

•February 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The night glows and flickers in my eyes.
A warmth surrounds me,
but from below there is a cold draft.
I look about.
My feet reach the cold floor
and I am tempted to run,
but I would know not where.
I walk down the streets,
a smile on my face.
Sometimes it is true,
other times I question;
do I know where I walk,
and will I ever reach my destination?
Is what I want in front of me,
or have I been walking in the wrong direction?
I walk back to the places I know,
and there I find solace,
there I find peace,
there I find memory.
Here I find questions,
and seldom any answers.
Some of the questions I am too afraid to ask,
and it reminds of of the past;
but now is different,
Because it has to be.
It just has to be.

56. Age of Reason

•January 26, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Does an age change a man?
As I grow older, I often wonder:
who is it that I am becoming?
Will I like the new me?
I certainly don’t like the old me,
and he doesn’t like me.
Perhaps it is best that way,
to always change, reinvent,
tear down the old walls
and not put up new ones.
Let’s let ourselves be more open,
let’s share our stories,
and not open up shopping malls in our hearts.

20. Chimera

•January 1, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Stone angels stand over the courtyard
Monuments of saints pray for the sinners below
Vines and moss climb up the walls
Reaching for the holy stones
There is a chill in the moist air
Dampening the soft soil
As it opens up
Belching the fires of the underworld
Demons climb from the pit and look to the sky
Rotting flesh and festering horrors
Terrify the sun as it hides behind clouds
Red eyes look to the walls of the courtyard
Fangs bared
Throats growling
Life slowly fading away
And the stench of death flowing all around
Voices surround this place
Ancient terrors rise to meet the fleeing sun
The demons start to laugh

The vines burn
The saints and angels crack and weep
And the sinners are claimed

19. A Mind Like a Universe

•December 11, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Tonight stars burn for none but themselves.
But they are just as bright tonight
As they have ever been.
The dark void between them
Calls to the cold
And the evening shivers.

Eyes bright, looking to the north
Burning with passion;
A heart beating
For none but itself.
Lungs fill with cold air
And my body shivers.

The vastness of these empty spaces
Leaves nothing to the imagination.

18. To Touch and Fall Apart

•November 3, 2011 • 1 Comment

These days my hands are crumbling
They are ash, the fire of life burned away
Not even cold embers remain
Just ash, blown away by cold air
And pasted to the ground by autumn rain
My heart beats slower now
Its warmth slowly dissipating
Like a coal left alone
My eyes see less and less
Scanning the horizon, I see trees
Thin and black, staining my vision
Like ink trails, seeping into my brain
Poisoning my thoughts
There is no sun in this place
Only clouds, an invisible moon
And despair