by what never was
what never could have been
the burdens of a weary soul
dragging down again.
All I ever offered
was never quite enough
and all I have to show for that
is silent broken love.
So nothing now
is all that I can be,
no words, no voice,
no presence at all,
I can offer that at least.
And then there will be nothing,
but what we are haunted by.


But for a word
or a whisper,
a breath of forgiveness
I gave but could not receive,
you could have saved me
with nothing but time;
and though you’ll heal
know I will not,
for no secrets kept
will escape this soul:
I shall bear to the end
your scars and my sins.

Thus shone the Sun…

And thus shone the Sun,
she in all her glory–
radiant, resplendent,
perfect in her being,
until came the Storm,
dark and unyielding,
forgetting that for all he was,
he was still beneath her
and could never join
her in her heavens.
In time, he passed,
as all storms must,
if only to allow her
to shine again.


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.


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.