Prisoner

Detached resonance
voices a tomorrow
lost in yesterday,
and solitude,
in its comfort,
is nothing more
than a prison of hope.

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Untitled

It is the end of summer
and thus the light dies;
it is the end of ever,
comes eternal night.

A rebellion of being
in a moment of faith,
a question of answers
and creator replaced;
the worry of breathing
when the air is this cold,
when silence of chaos
and its order unfolds.

The death of a dream
that was ever unborn,
and I in my doing
exist but to mourn.

untitled

It beckons:
a moment that’s only
a breath away,
the space between
life and death where
living really happens;
a chance,
a risk,
a rush,
and the hope forgetting
what brought me here,
the thrill of the storm
charging the blood,
until the fire burns out
and the sweetness of pain
replaces the bitterness of being.

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.

Sonnet VII

In slumber I seek my solitude; for
a moment’s peace among the aether I
would offer all that my soul has viewed, and
only ask that I be allowed to in stillness lie;
I adore the lights and colors of the stage,
but weary I embrace the curtain’s fall,
and would that it were a one act play,
ere I might relax my standing tall:
and into the Sandman’s warm embrace,
my sorrow, my pain, my soul I would place.
 
 

More of a pseudo-sonnet really; plenty of rules broken, but I’m okay with that.

I Am

An eternity, it seems,
 – or only a moment? –
have I borne this burden,
this work of sorrow
ceaseless in its being.
Upon a field
grey and lifeless
I am bound,
and there I harvest
the newborn soul.
Memory is not mine,
only the knowing
of what has been
and what must be,
and that, for me,
an eternity of being
is an end to the beginning.

Worry

Weakness plagues me,
wearies my soul,
warns me of
what is to be,
what is yet to come;
a while though,
I’ve yet to go,
a way to travel
before my walk is done,
but these wounds I’ll carry
as worry haunts me
and weakens my resolve.
Weep not though, nor
wish me well, for
what I have and
what I am
I have made through the
work of my own hands.