I will paint you a husk from my depths.  
No matter how loud,  
how far I rend my voice,  
the emptiness hears;  
nothing comes.  

---

Suspended in a sallow amber,  
I cry and thrash until I croak—  
raw throat, drowning in red-agony wails.  
My cries obscur,  
drowned by humanity's squalling chorus.  

---

Zenith's Reach  

I kept traveling up the Hell-scorched  
steeple birthed from nightmare's chasm.  
Over,  
and over,  
OVER.  

Finally, enduring my ever-gale,  
I made it to Zenith's Edge.  
My Heart Raptured,  
pleading—my maker in revel.  

You ignored my rasping dirge—  
I am torn across the floor.  

You went,  
and  

Shut the Door.


---

Our True Selves  

Time's ethereal claws that ever sunder,  
a forever phantom that lingers  
without invitation—intrusive by nature,  
to where it’s unfathomable to grasp entire.  

Your specter—  
I see it clearly,  
the figure donned behind the mask.  
I recognize you now,  
my being forever writhing;  
a hand with veiled motives  
that brought ageless wounds.  

I can gaze upon your true self now—  
you, my own harbinger of decimation.  

---

Wailing Storm  

How do I convey my unfiltered,  
volatile emotions?  
I endure—  
the hellish squalls,  
neverending gale in my mind—  
into my voice?  

Birthing my  absconful end,  
I wish for only a moment’s rest.  
Yet the world spurns me,  
scathing my being into shards,  
in the Eye of true tragedy,  
whose innocence pilfered  
by humanity's unfaithful nature.  

Birthed abundant as a bounty:
waned too early, wrought by men,  
felt as a wrinkle in humanity—  
awaiting to be struck by iron's ire,  
inflicting me with unshakable doom.  

---

Our Plight  

I cannot unsee it—  
perhaps all of us are the true monsters beneath,  
the ones we strive to warn about.  
Humanity’s failed doctrine is a facade;  
we all are stricken,  
masking our hidden shadow.  
I cannot resist but agree:  

That Hell is empty—  
the Devil has been inside us always.  

Yet each day,  
the dreadful phantom keeps consuming,  
an insatiable debt,  
bending me terribly to pay without consent,  
whirling my viscous cycle—  

Nevermore–yet
into endless hell.  

---

The Wind  

I am but a sufferer,  
shackled in the maw of past echoes.  
striving to be as the unborn,  
Ever-trapped by my Dogma, in an unbounded loop—  

where help can Never help.  

Past actions howl  
like autumn’s haunting wind.  
Obsessed with wind’s tithing,  
the way it whistles and breathes—  
a hollow, beautiful tone.  

Envious of winds, aureate and free,  
stretching far, endlessly heard.  
Eternally wishing for thoughts  
to stretch into oblivion,  
as our forgotten do who lie beneath.  

---

Equinotic Slumber  

Still you reach from far beyond,  
a scorchful hand in the scar of earth,  
sundering deep-etched echoes,  
where my festering thoughts rot unheard.  

I will forever bask in Neverending Equinox,  
where my nightmares pool in the desolate ebon—  
to a stilled stagnant state.  

My screams ever dissipate,  
flickering out  
into the place where Nightmares sleep.  

---

i stared out my window today
and the world outside looked the same
the same old trees, the same small birds
the same dusky sky strewn with clouds

like a painting frozen in time
seemingly constant and lasting
a safe and familiar ground

yet i cannot shake this feeling
that something has changed in some way

and the sun will not be as warm
and the stars won’t appear as bright
and the moon won’t be the same sight

the stochasticity of this world
brings souls together and then apart
an impermanence that bestows grief
yet offers meaning to our lives

wherever this divergence takes us
just know that this meeting was special
the universe conspired for this, so

when chance allows us to meet again
tell me your stories and i’ll share mine

and we will laugh like we used to laugh
and we will sing like we used to sing
and we will talk like we used to talk

moments like this come rarely to a wallflower
you can be sure they will treasure this forever

A shower empowers sick flowers in bed
six hours will sour the flowers instead
they wilt and they weep at the hours ahead
as the silt where they sleep devours the dead.

You observe a shadowy figure
Crouched on weathered planks
Staring into the depths
Of the ocean's vast embrace

The stars shine overhead
And a sliver of the moon
Reflects on crested waves

You watch the figure stand
Then take a haunting step
And vanish from the light

A view so picturesque
That most may never know
What remains
Beneath the surface

i sleep through the night,
           my dreams aching, full of light

will they ever know peace,
           as my soul yearns for release

i tread under bright moonlight,
       a river clearing the fog of my sight

in utter stillness,
         i take in the glistening scenery…

where is the home i miss,
    only remembered in drunken bliss.

Душа черствеет на ветру,
Душа черствеет от страданий.
Увы, под бременем судьбы
Мы строим жизни нашей зданье.

Не будешь вечно молодым,
Не будет вечного веселья.
Слеза катилась по щеке…
Как после тяжкого похмелья.

Всё понимая — всех простишь,
То мудрость жизни расцветает.
И сам с собою говоришь,
И всё кого-то вспоминаешь…

Качались вётлы на ветру,
Шумел в душе осенний ветер.
Огонь рябины не согрел —
Пусть даже день осенний светел.

Всё понимая — всё грустишь,
Улыбкой память согревая.
В окно дождливое глядишь…
Ну почему же жизнь такая?

Свободной волей дорожишь
И делаешь свои ошибки…
А время кружит и спешит,
И ожиданий грёзы зыбки.

О, грусть моя, моя печаль,
В душе гнездо свила тихонько…
И всё кого-то просто жаль!
И всхлипы слышатся ребёнка…

Green grass,
the scent and colors of wildflowers,
and on the face, a smile that remembers springtimes
while the sun gently caresses them
and bathes them in its warmth.

White daisies
dance proudly in the breeze
as if to say:
we are happy just as we are,
and need nothing more.

Summer’s heat weaves its fingers
and adds a shade of yellow
to the canvas of beautiful plants,
excessive and merciless,
while they beg for the last drops of rain.

Something has grown quiet.
Looking at those once-lovely blades of grass
I now see
an invisible thread that binds us
in the whirlpool of memories.
At times, a weary smile appears,
accompanied by restless longing.