Wonderment

Of stoic oceans and raging seas

A lived lifetime or perhaps, seventy-three

As the sway in the trees 

The darkest moon I’ve even seen

And starlight covering these

Silver shines the past and future for me

The blustery gale murmurs into a breeze

How can this be?

I sense it, just as the princess and the pea

I am never alone, because of thee

Of frigid oceans and calm seas

All the stars guiding the trees

You are never alone, because of me

One Of Them

You came up to me After your dance with a man I saw that look in your eyes You were one of them. You grazed my hand I told you to apologize You said you didn't have to I decided to make you. In a swift motion I turned around And bashed your head Onto the ground. I leapt onto your body Your screams echoing uselessly As I grabbed a nearby chair And bashed it into your head. Once Twice And then the blood came It splattered out warmly onto me. Sweat in my eye As I stepped from you I ran my hand across my chest And prayed to God. "I saved this heathen from Hell My lord After all He's one of them."

Hope On The Floor

I feel so dirty, so lost in time. The lies I said just hours ago, melted into fake acts that are marred to my skin. I've lost count of how many times—five or so—that I let my heart die so my sin can be released. As always, I lie on the floor. I stare at the ceiling and pray that this won't be the day that I die of my own treacherous blood. But I've broken so many pacts; so many rules . . . I think it would be deserving to let my soul wither and die as the tears leave my tainted eyes. And this is how it goes. "Let me survive, God. I'll never do it again," I mutter as I struggle to move. I know he won't listen, I've weaseled my way out of my promises before; but still, I cling to flashes of hope. I wonder if when I move from this filthy floor, will my hope be left with the crying ghost of my innocence?

Moon

There's an old man walking the streets. He waves at all, regardless of the season. His face is weathered and gray, as is his beard. Only, his eyes remain bright—like the vibrant moon hiding behind clouds of white. I don't know his name, I'm not sure if anyone did. But he'd wave with a hearty hand in the air and you'd wave back, not certain if you should be as chipper. Thing is, I only saw him on certain days, and absolutely not on a full moon. Once, I asked someone about him. "I don't know," they said. Either this man was guarded or visible only to those that wanted to see him. One day, I leapt from my truck as I saw his familiar red, plaid shirt. I ran through the orange and brown autumn leaves, because I had to know his secrets, to know his name. I approached him cautiously, but when he smiled at me and his eyes lit up like fire on a winter's night, I held out my hand. "I don't think we've met." My smile was earnest and my hand rigid. But the old man just stared at me. Not a cold stare, but just a stare. He smiled as my grin faltered. Did I offend him? I don't know how it happened, but I left my town and the old man. I didn't come back until many years. I asked around for the curious old man, but none even knew what I was talking about. He has vanished from their thoughts, either out of ignorance or selfishness. The orange and brown leaves were all familiar as I solemnly marched the sidewalk like I did years ago. I was home for Christmas, so the decorations were comforting; albeit a bit lonely without snow. It was then when I looked up. My breath escaped from my lungs in quick bursts of white puffs as the clear sky held the full moon. It was bright, vibrant and kind. It was then I realized, I knew the man. I knew his secret. I smiled from ear to ear as my face warmed to the blue light of the moon. He still walked the streets and he still waved at people, regardless of the season, just in a different way. I raised my hand and gave a hearty wave as a burst of wind whipped around me. In it, leaves tickled my face. The old man wasn't gone, he was always there and always will be, I just had to look in the right place.

Winter Möbius

The scene was dry, even though snow covered the land. Specks of white matter glowed in bright flashes, signaling my mission. Like the filament of a light bulb, this person's life flared hot until it died upon the snow. So here I am, to clean it up. I scratched a wet spot on my head, the snow was falling very hard this evening. Under the fresh snow—as if hiding his deeds—callous stars of red liquid poked out glaringly. A black object, most likely a pistol, fell at his head opposite the stars. I quickly played the scene out in my head. The man walked out into this field of white crystals as a gun tapped his leg. I know the pistol was cold in his hands, after all, that always happens. I imagine a tear left his eyes as he saw the fading remains of lights in the distance become devoured by the growing mist of gray fog. Soon after, his trembling fingers commanded the gun to his head and then— BANG! I winced as the sharp sound of frustrated dreams temporarily deafened my right ear. Instinctually, I raised my hand to my ear and felt cool liquid on my fingertips. "The snow's melting already?" I mouthed as my fingers demanded my utmost attention. In the falling snow, I stared at my fingers—dark matter smeared across their minute ridges. I stared as a snowflake tried to rest on my warm palm. Only, it didn't. It continued to fall through my hand as the fading lights in the distance bounced off its exterior like a warm lover losing his love. I curiously watched the snowflake mingle with its frozen brethren as I realized I would slowly become one with the land of dry snow.

Fade Away

There are moments where one feels a deep connection with the world; like nature whispering the totality of knowledge in rapid staccato. It's a strange event, like we can see the future and taste the past, but it's also disturbing. Emotions start to build like lava in a volcano and then they just erupt—smiting everything in its path until only the hollow volcano is left. I'm of the mind that this connection is because one has met a soul that is like theirs and when the two resonate, something happens that transcends what is corporeal; what is reality. The greatest sorrow in the world is the splitting of love, of bonds. Like the splitting of an atom, this intrusion upon purity is met with a tear. Life is a delicious concoction of violence and generosity, joy and fear, singing and dread. Dancing with tears in your eyes is more than a song title; it's a complete state of existence. The wars in our hearts over sanity is complex, beautiful and completely tragic. A single moment never shapes us nor does the screaming echo of repeated failure. All we are are the culmination of memories; tactile experiences. You're the product of falling off a bike and getting back on the road. Of waking up in the morning next to someone you don't love. Of cradling the dead because we can't bear to be alone in this emotionally devoid world. We rage. We cry. We feel everything. Despite living through similar ordeals we never know what to so say to one another. It's all new when it's not our own. In unison, we are alone. When a connection is severed it's hard to feel anything but betrayal. An aching despair just devouring everything pure and decent in the world. The earth is bloodthirsty, you see. We die, we leak the very fluid that keeps organic beings alive only for the planet to gobble us back up. Life is cruel, it is savage and it is uncaring about our whims. Everything we do must be in respect to this and in fact, in response to this. We take photographs to remember those who are free from this darkness only to have the sun bleach the artifacts of happiness. Memories are stolen from our minds by disease and trauma. Time doesn't heal all wounds. They simply fade away.

Cup Of Memories

The coffee pot beeps off and I know it's been hours since I've seen you. My cup is still full. Catching up after 10 years seemed impossible but we did it in a span of a Saturday morning. The sun brushed against the fall leaves. Sometimes, i wonder if we'll be torn completely apart. Then I stare at the steam from my cup. It rises to become one with the air . . . never truly gone. Escaping into something larger than itself. The brisk wind jostled the trees like you did my heart. I lean back and my chair creaks. Groaning under the weight of lost thoughts and evaporated days. Never gone. We get older and I still see your smile as we sat the bank of the ditch; your bright eyes crinkled into adolescent joy. The clock above my sink ticked. You had to leave early to pick up your daughter. I met her once but that was when she was still in diapers. I knew her before English was a concept to her and still, I said "I love you" when the time called for it. I shrugged at the changing weather outside my home. Here, I sit. Tapping at a table where we once laughed around. The remaining chairs are empty and it's just me and my coffee. I stare at my cup of memories. It's still full.