Epitaphs

There is a certain peace
that comes with knowing
forever ends as it begins:

Resolution to a quiet resolve
where courage once failed
offers hope where
none is else offered.

Epitaphs are only ever written
as an afterthought,
forgetting all but memory,
and what will never be.

So the poet writes his own,
knowing what will be
between the gods and he,
without the fear once held
of finding his release.

Passing On

And silence,
in all it’s painful beauty,
is what will remain
when the echoes fade,
and memories with them
shall pass into nothing;
only then, and only then,
will I find my peace
and in forgetting be forgotten,
given to the Void
and to Oblivion,
only when nothing remains.

Babylon Calling

I need her:

The fat, rich whore
with all her vices
and distractions,
the endless promise
of forgetting and being forgotten,
loved and tossed aside,
and lost to a multitude of sins
where no one will notice–
or even care.

To be blinded
by color and sound,
light and noise,
a vicious chorus of life
careening carelessly to its end
with nothing to stop it,
except when the lights go out.

And she, my temptress,
who seduces me with
rouge and violet,
asphalt and steel,
and all that I am not,
she is my salvation
from a world that crawls along
unaware of anything that it is not,
and in her will I find the hope
of a man unrealized,
and stillborn and aborted dreams
orphaned in their infancy.

Babylon calls.

gutted

The void internal:
an empty expanse,
only a reminder of what was
and now is not;

a loss of blood,
a loss of soul,
a loss of being,
remains the cold;

and there is nothing
to stop stop the egress
of a heart with nothing to hold it,
and protect it from itself;

if there was anything but this,
anything more than nothing,
that could save me,
the me that was you,
I would surrender,
but there is only

time that is not mine

and the void eternal.

Just Passing Through

We dance in shadow and light,
and we are but shades
defined between them,
endlessly turning
as time passes around us,
between and earth and sky
that will never meet;
and in the shape of light
is found a glimpse of forever,
though it too is fleeting,
naught but another reminder
of all that the dark is not.

Identity Crisis

I forget myself sometimes,
what I am and what I am not;
but I never forget that I AM,
nor that I am not.
If was to be what I thought,
then maybe what is would not be,
and what is not would not hurt.
It’s this sense of being,
of you and I,
that has kept me from me
and the truth that I
am only what remains of us,
waiting for something
that will never be,
nothing more than
what I never was.
And I pray
that someday I will forget.

Midian Unmade Amazon Listing

The Amazon page for Midian Unmade: Tales of Clive Barker’s Nightbreed is up. The book is being published by Tor Books in hardcover next July, and will have my short story, ‘Rook,’ among its contents. Looks like pre-orders are available now.