I started empty when I vomited nothing.
It wasn’t just a dry heave; my body convulsed
when I grabbed hold of your bright temptations
then indulged in all of your promises
that were actually darkened compromises
slithering down from the limbs of brown trees
covered in the white flowers
of a faery child from an elfin grot.
You opened all my gates; never took me in
until when I ceased to call you bastard
until when I ceased to see a monster
until when I let you paint the mirage.
Now I am that withered and swinging fruit,
another hollow reflection of you.
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I am not a knower of all, nor a knower of much.
The integrity of my intelligence fails to stretch
barely round my own mind, much less ‘tween us.
On the best of days, it is a beautiful wreck.
When I look to the rivers and stars, near and far,
I am brought to laughter and tears all in the same breath.
The burning oranges of a six pm dusk
remind me of the vastness of Nature and her depths.
I suffer from ego and arrogance and need.
To see, to be seen, to love, to be loved,
these are my handicaps that drive me
into bright lanes and dark coves.
I hope that the end of the day finishes
with more questions than what I have offered
as answers that I hope betray my need
not to be right but to be embraced.
He walked down the mountain with his head held high,
turned the corner. Then it all shattered.
Whatever might have mattered didn’t. It all died
in one last breath of unsustainable insight.
He runs, stumbles, runs, falls,
too many fingers pointing too many directions.
He fetals in a hollow cul-de-sac;
all this noise is too much interjection.
And begs and pleads and pleads and begs
for that one sound, that one song,
that one memory that makes him invisible
in the solitude for which he so desperately longs.
Split between two ways of wandering,
forks in the road remain on the narrow way.
One darker, covered in shadows and shade,
winding in a descending vertigo.
Sun’s rays still visible through these low limbs,
enough light to show the descending way.
The cracks, crevices, not all on display
will oftentimes cause bleeding and pain.
There is no bait and switch draw here today;
there are no promises of health and wealth.
This walk can be a bitch ringing shrill bells;
disrupting and wakening from reveries.
To get to the light at the end of the dark,
or to the dark at the end of the light
requires something far beyond mere sight.
He moves his feet and begins his descent.
Long climbs with repetitious stumbling
mark this man’s damnation in history.
His forked tongue and wandering eyes
set him with the gods of this mortal coil.
With that snipped his only harvest is toil.
Unending useless efforts consign him
to a madness beyond even his wit.
The faculty that cursed him to this place.
Until he gazed upon Hedone’s face.
Therein he inhaled and stole a mere breath.
Amongst the dead, that act is always eternal
and in this space Sisyphus found rest.
Eternity is filled with eternities;
even a breath ends eventually.
I am a ghost, a former self drifting.
Dark nights eclipsed by dawn’s dew run me through
with the sharp blades of resurrecting suns.
I am invisible by noon’s delight.
I was once a dream birthed on a spring morn.
Faerie dust sparkling on rainbows bore me
to the mind of a man not fully grown -
I was sewn within his very being.
Now I exist without him, outside him.
When he weeps, his tears fall through me like rain;
his wailing words pierce me, though I cannot hold them.
Nor him. I am only a ghost drifting.