I love to walk through cemeteries
reading all the stones.

Not the names so much
as the stories that are told.

I really like the old ones
where the live oaks grow.

And the dead lie in shaded
gardens planted all in rows.

Marble angels look towards heaven,
with weathered wings and robes.

stone cherubs represent nameless babies
from a hundred years ago.

Fine cut pillars of the hardest stone,
mark graves of rich men who died alone.

and in the farthest corners
the small cement stones.

barely readable names
of people no one knows.

But the soil is no worse
here than it is over there.

And the angel in the center
just pretends to cry.

Honestly, she doesn't care.

Writhing is the brain, hair stood on end, 

with every beat of the eldritch heart. 

The air, a-buzz with cacophonous, insectoid droning, 

threatening to infiltrate and indoctrinate the mind;



twisting languid listening into a maddening gaze,

ablaze with hate and lacking sophistication. 



I cling, with fingers tensed, to the heavy, sticky rot

that lingers thickly in the air, 

and all my cares are gnawing at my soul. 



Something stirring deep within has heightened, 

and I’m frightened, finding myself once again 

scared of the dark. 



A darkness creeping deep within my dreams, 

which, snaking, strangles me; and when I wake 

I find I’m face down in contorted misery, 

like something ghostly sought to swallow me

alive. 



Wretched wasteful 

-undue, unholy and unsanctioned- 

sour tasting, ugly, rank: 

anxiety

Storms are not born
They are old as light
You cannot have power
but it is harnessed

There is no such thing as a river
but it shapes as it flows
You can only hold your breath for so long

The mind is a sieve
and a lattice
The heart, a prism
and a fathomless ocean

The world is a pebble in that dark;
a nascent dream
There is no loss of innocence
We are eternal, spanning across time

Only the eye knows,
before the mind’s grasp
All else is distorted

Once a flower blooms,
in that moment, it exists forever
There is nothing in creation that can change it
All is forever changed because of it

Power is but a ripple, or an echo
There is only embrace

From the start, we are entwined,
integrated solely with truth
All of life seeks to replicate this intimacy,
but only death can

rivers tell a tale
of the things that come and go
the world's quiet here