Opened my veins yesterday and poured in the twilight

with its dead promises. Nothing makes sense in an imaginary

world that no one can touch. In the strange hours I dream of evenings

under moonrise and of fashioned ideals before they could turn

and go, had seeped their treachery into my widowed summers. Is this my lover, this face of death? I recoil to

the unmoving view.



The soft, voiceless emotions escape the exhausted frame to assail

tomorrows empty heaven. The dawn, with its dull smell, fills my nostrils

and the stench of a burning sun separates the hope from silent lips.



There is something painful in the first spring bud of life, it tears at the insides and claws at the doors of

tenderness

that riseth in black forms from an obsolete graveyard.



To cast my eyes on the horrors you have created or to turn and gaze

at the clouds? It remains cold and dark and the painless times revel in

a distant memory that only seem to trespass when the night is clear.



The bitterness tastes sweet and it conjures up images

of a narcissistic funeral

that injure my dreams

narcissistic dreams



The wordless world bleeds to the point of despair and the failed attempts to move end in quiet massacres. The

lurid calm is a stalking mountain that eludes the perceptive eye but eventually overwhelms to send us cowering.