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... Continue Reading →


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... Continue Reading →


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... Continue Reading →

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... Continue Reading →

I Am

An eternity, it seems, – or only a moment? –have I borne this burden,this work of sorrowceaseless in its being.Upon a fieldgrey and lifelessI am bound,and there I harvestthe newborn soul.Memory is not mine,only the knowingof what has beenand what must be,and that, for me,an eternity of beingis an end to the beginning.


Weakness plagues me,wearies my soul,warns me ofwhat is to be,what is yet to come;a while though,I’ve yet to go,a way to travelbefore my walk is done,but these wounds I’ll carryas worry haunts meand weakens my resolve.Weep not though, norwish me well, forwhat I have andwhat I amI have made through thework of my own hands.

Winter of Discontent

This isn't darkness,this shroud about me -'tis Winter's gripchoking the light.This isn't sorrow,this weight upon me -'tis grief unspoken,echoed in night.This isn't empty,this void of being -'tis hollow clay,sheltering wights.  

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