I must have been born some day,
some time ago,
somehow,
against my will.

I must have been born because I have this body coiled around me.

I must have been given shape some day,
some time ago;
molded into something
my soul doesn't recognize.

I must have been given shape because I have this body coiled around me.

I must have been held in motherly arms some day,
some long while ago,
because I remember her saying
that she can take away this life as easily as she's given it.

I must have been held because I remember how many times I cried and asked to be held.

I must have been crawling some day,
many scraped knees ago,
through the broken glass of
always feeling so small.

I must have been crawling because my knees hurt so very much.

I must have been walking around some day,
some time ago,
somehow,
against the frigid wind.

I must have been walking because I remember that unforgiving blizzard.

I must have been swimming some day,
some time long past,
somehow,
holding on to dear life.

I must have been swimming because I have saltwater deep in my lungs.

I must have been running some of those days,
awhile ago,
from something
I keep trying to forget.

I must have been running because I feel so very out of breath.

I must have been given a body some day,
some time ago,
somehow,
against my will.

I must have been given a body because it is suffocating me.

Because I don't feel welcome in it.

Because I don't feel safe in it.

Because my very soul wants to destroy it.

Because I don't want the memories it shelters in its bones.

I must have been given a body because it is forever coiled around me.

I must have been given life one day because I want to give it all back.

you shimmer under both the moon and the sun
as I stare deeply into you,
lost in those roasted chestnuts
that stare back at me.

a night so dark
that there is no starlight
to gaze longingly at,
but for those constellations
that embroider your fae visage.

starlight
from deep within
your heart's fire.

I can see myself
find a future
here,
beneath this most heavenly vault.

empyrean strands whisper
above those windows to
your effervescent soul,
beckoning me to
burn away all that pain
and sorrow
that I carry upon
my mortal shoulders.

in a second you light up
my entire azure sphere
and chase away
the spiders and the vipers
that hide in the ever-dark corners of
my remembrance.

goddess,
I beseech thee
shine your firelight upon
my yearning flesh.

you ran away with me
from the monotony of growing up
and into the deep cobalt yonder.

we chased the sun
and battled the moon,
yet she always won
and gently
tucked us away
under soft midnight.

we skipped through crag
and mire.
we waded the river
and touched the emerald blades
of summer grass.

we were free.
we were children.

you were older,
almost a woman.

but I kept you young
and wild
and free.

that is why you liked sharing little wonders with me.

you share with me such hurtful words
that are a balm to
my kindred soul.

they hurt as they leave your summer wine lips
and drip like molten wax
upon my chest,
and heart,
and mind,
and touch my soul...

verse after verse.

you entwine my eroded coil
within your moonlight glow,
and tell me all the things
I so hungrily needed to know.

you wrap my broken hands
within your silken ones.

I crave to part your lips,
and share in such a melody.
that starlight hum.
that midnight medley.
that dark and ever-glowing sonnet
that brought you to my desolation.

I yearn to kiss them with my ones,
those lips as warm as starlight flame,
as perfect as the heart of night,
as young as time itself.

but mine are blistered
by frigid winds,
and bloodied from some fist
I've recently had to stomach...

A muse will amuse herself with little interaction that spark the fires of artistic endeavor.

A muse will amuse herself with the poking and proding of the weather beaten beast that boasts of great skills in the caging of thoughts and feelings.

A muse will wither away in a place where there is nothing to amuse herself with...

Therefore she will search for that one hunter that can track down the wildest of ideas, the one that can take down the most dangerous experiences and tame them for the masses.

She will land on the shoulders of that one predator that can drag prey into the dwelling of the many and feed them all with the morsels of this glorious hunt.

So hunt on, dear hunter.
Hunt on and be the plaything of thine muse.

Can you write with a broken pen?

Can you send out the words that reverberate within your soul if the inkwell has dried out?

Can you scribble away at your own thoughts if the paper has been hollowed out by grief?

Can you author a better future with nothing but your bleeding fingers?

you brandish most beautiful eyes at me
as our paths cross
in the city.

a blue as pure as the winter sky
makes me think that
to see you cry
would plunge my heart into
a roaring blizzard.

yet I can imagine the light
of the sun
shimmer upon a single
tear.

I could bear the thought of
seeing you weep with joy,
as the first dew of
blissful spring runs down your
snow-pale face.

and in a second you pass me by.
and you are gone like
a snowflake in the wind.

She saw him standing there,
looking at her, austere as a
cliff upon a shoreline,
unmoved by the sea.

Yet she knew that every cliff
eventually crumbles
against the unrelenting waves.

And she was unrelenting.

Petals of mold on your heavy eyelids
remind me of the moment when I died among the kindling...

blood dew flowing with the choleric thorns of your eyelashes
feed the scarlet weeds of final bitter twitches,
and the harsh blades of the cardinal sun
burn my last too-naive sentimental nostalgias...

If my soul was a color, it would be a funeral color.

It would be the color of remembrance, and the color of forgetting.

It would be a color that screams to be avenged, respected and mourned.

It would be a proud color.



A color that remembers a glorious past, mostly imagined and embroidered with more victories than defeats.



It would be a color of joy, yet hidden in silence.

A color that boasts of courage, but asks for submissiveness.

A color that speaks of kindness, but greedily hoards.

A color that's been censored.



The color of my soul would be that lack of color, that void that takes away all other colors,

and shoves them down below, under the writhing belly of the thick-scaled beast.

The color that waits to burst out with deep reds, and gold, and blues.



It would be that color that would not stay dead,

would not stay mourned,

would not roll over,

but hammers against the void and brings forth the kaleidoscope of hope.

An ox did once tell me a tale
and I listen to his voice unveil,
An ox did once tell me a tale.

It starts with hooves and ends in May,
I dare not, a word I dare not say,
It starts with hooves and ends in May.

It speaks of mountains old and new,
Of such grandeur I did not knew,
It speaks of mountains old and new.

He sits atop  a sailing stone,
And moves without moving a bone,
He sits atop a sailing stone.

An ox that moves by standing still,
It’s so massive, no wolf dares ****
an ox that moves by standing still.

The stone is cold and shrinks away,
It does not sail in light of day,
The stone is cold and shrinks away.

Under the moon a stone shall dance,
And one could tell with just a glance,
Under the moon a stone shall dance.

It melts away under the sun,
And when the night is done
it melts under the sun.

He tells a story of his crime
I listen to his voice, sublime.
He tells the story of his crime.

The ox was young and fell in love,
He did at first see stars above.
The ox was young and fell in love.

A lady red, of skin pale-white,
The ox with love he couldn’t fight!
A lady red, of skin pale-white.

She came to him and whispered loud
Of how her dream would make her proud,
She came to him and whispered.

He told his story to a point
He would not let me go beyond
He told his story to the point.

I listened close and said right back,
“I know your pain, I lived it too”,
I listened close and said right back.

“I knew a lady, pale and red
And I did take her to my bed,
The lonely lady, pale and red.

She looked at me with deep-blue eyes
And I thought I found paradise,
I lost myself in deep-blue eyes.

She came to me and whispered high
That now we have to say goodbye…
She came to me and whispered high.”

And so the ox told me a tale
As I looked in a mirror, pale.
And so the ox was told a tale.