Hope is insidious in its waning, lingering sweet like a sin, an unspoken prayer that betrays reason in defiance of looming inevitability while offering nothing more than a lengthening of the hours of a lonely vigil.
October light-- a vicious elegance, a withdrawn luminescence setting the world ablaze in gold and crimson while casting long and determined shadows on the memory of summer's recklessness-- and I, in the hollow solace of a hallowed season, find myself a martyr for the sun...
love has no leave we fly down in velvet dreams and thirst with the sky under brilliant song living out of wild bodied trees
I refuse to let death be my life, for it is the only one that I have; I'll not worry about the end of my path, it will come soon enough, and getting there is the fun part.
Here where the only shadows cast are those we create, with only the weight of the world upon our shoulders, heaven still seems so far away, lost against the backdrop of yesterday's dreams as they're held hostage by tomorrow's tragedies; I'm reminded that the war between the heart and soul is nothing more than the... Continue Reading →
I am not my words but they are all I have left of me.
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... Continue Reading →
When dies the fire, it should not be allowed to dwindle into embers, each fighting for its last breath, for in this is sorrow, the anguish of light and life allowed to linger in pain, and with it passion dies; with mighty roar and great flare should the fire be allowed to die, meeting its... Continue Reading →
A poet without words is a tragedy that remains unwritten.