To the beholder such beauty is heavenly.
A godly product of nature,
as enchanting and majestic as
the flowers or a morning frost.
To the beheld in such worship is frippery.
A biased vision of allure,
as manipulated and contorted as
a dream or a narrative device.

I know not if I have ever seen
a night so still as this.
Clouds rolling on a starry sea;
A beautiful eclipse.

But lo, another light appears
now I am on the run.
The man whose gold I stole is near
he brandishes a gun.

A dark alley, a scurried fall
Slowed by the sack I bore;
he caught me trapped against a wall,
and the night was still no more.

Hello, my name is Universe,
but I have gone by many names.
Whether they call me cosmos,
outer-space, the abyss, …
or love, … it is all the same to me.

By “they,” I mean the voices in me
of course, with lives all their own.
I suppose I’m a bit schizophrenic,
but isn’t everyone? We all live
with the voices within us.

They don’t often think of me, even as they go
about their existence within my vastness,
yet I’m very self- and/or other-aware,
and I know them all;
every hope, dream, … and fear.

I have fears of my own you know.
“But how?” you may ask,
as every frightening thing is already in me,
as if that weren’t scary enough.
Yet something is even more daunting.

That’s right… space is afraid of time.
That wing’d chariot haunts me everywhere,
I know no corner of myself outside of time.
You could say it’s my second half, and what’s scarier than the ‘you’ - you don’t know?

I’m fourteen going on forty… billion.
During my life I’ve done a lot,
I’ve painted nebulas and lit stars ablaze,
but most moments are spent thinking,
and boy I’ve thought, and thought, and thought.

Some call my birth the beginning,
but who really knows or cares about beginnings.
I’m more concerned with endings,
and in true Universe fashion, I like endings
to go out with a BANG.

And yet… that’s not how things always work.
Some deaths are hot in name only,
and even for someone as old as me,
some endings last way, way too long…
like the pain of a light fading and flickering out.

But I digress, because even after so many
have gone out, I still love every burning candle,
and sometimes I mourn the ashes of a flame
that only lived to light the darkness,
and draw constellations across the sable sea.

My end is destined to be the same.
An eternity will seem like a moment,
and all I hold will become but a dull glow,
and I’ll be left alone with time,
both weary and old- dying together.

After that… I don’t know,
I guess there is no after… or where.
My name is Universe,
and I’m just like everyone else,
afraid of the uncertainty of death.

I guess this is my first.
It's really just a poem.
A few words
Arranged into a few lines
With a few spaces and dots and curly things that split our words into pieces...

Just my first.

No one really likes firsts, do they?
Not for school, at least,
Or for taking out the trash
Or forcing your legs to throw your body into the swelling body of water beneath you.
So, honestly,
I can't blame your for hating it.

Then again, you could love it.
After all, firsts are good for races.
They're also good for test scores.
And, if I'm remembering correctly, I know a set of twins that get into plenty of arguments about who should have come first.

So, yea, firsts can be good.

They're good for the presidents.
And the roosters.

Firsts are also pretty good for travelers.
I mean, if there were no firsts, how would travelers ever have anywhere new to go?

However, I don't really know how people feel about firsts in sickness.
Or death.
That could also be a bad one.

Well, anyway.
Here I am.
With a poem.
My first poem.
And, as we have found out here, firsts are very easy to love.
And they're very easy to hate.
And they're also very easy to ignore.

But I guess it doesn't really matter now, does it?
Because, what'll happen when my second comes along?

The air is brittle this ominous, wintry night.

The slivers of a life you used to know still haunt you, as surely as you have permitted them to be a haunt to others.

Without question, it is those memories that spur your ruminations; that cause your copious circumlocutions; which compell you to stand on this somber boulevard in front of this crumbling, but once stately manor that now is a languid presence with the solitary purpose of looming over the vast grounds.

It is obligatory that you proceed along the avenue that used to split the yards that are now overgrown and chocoblock with twisted vines, and thistles.

You pause, to gather your strength.
One deep inhailation and then you hold your breath as you grip the tarnished handle and lock leaver.

With a perfect degree of strength your thumb recalls, the mechanism is undone.

Your arm pushes forward.

The silence is disturbed by a warbling creak as the heavy door is slowly opened.

You exhale, then before you lose your nerve you quickly pass through the ingress and enter into the foyer,
which is instantly familiar in the dim, flickering light and the long, slender adumbrations effected by the gossamer encaked voltives jutting from the dusty walls.

Though it has remaned unchanged  
throughout all the time that has passed, standing in the ornate room affirms that the warmth with which you used to be recieved here has been abandoned to a frigidity.

You feel as if this room remembers you.

This is as far as I dare go with you, my friend, though I know you must continue.

I have listened to your stories, so
I know you have many rooms to search.

The closier that you seek is in a matter that is not my own.

I will depart upon rendering these words of warning:

When visiting the past,

As you daringly explore these often haralded halways,
Be careful what you leave behind.
Take caution not to lose yourself,
For a shadow lingers in the Suite Sublime.

It looked like a bright lit morning.

She was awake and avoided frowning,

A sleep of five more minutes,

Could have made the day seem finite.

Wet boots and a beige coat,

Hung awaiting a sunny day ahead.

Blinded by million thoughts in riot,

She scanned in haste her heavy mind.

Sirens rang in symphony afar,

Reminding her to close the door ajar,

She had her clipboard and note,

Waiting for her ride to the station.

Brand new case remained out in the open,

A little boy had been violently murdered,

This was not one not two but a total of seven,

Worried parents of runaways harboured around.

Who could it be stared the white board?

Who has the absence of heart to commit this deed?

Subordinates blanked with only dead-end,

Clues were nil and everybody drew a blank instead.

But there was something in common,

Faces of children expressed utter calm.

Were they lost in a wondrous dream?

Seventh child yet unclaimed  waited in vain.

She looked on for hours together,

Until she had a brain wave to ponder deeper,

Off she took her police motorbike,

To the drug peddlers and ruffians she had to seek.

Had she seen this boy earlier?

Around the red light of a traffic signal,

With his eyes raining clouds of heavy shower,

Just doing his part to get two square meal.

Questioning all around downtown,

Where runaways gathered upon,

Boys, girls, young adults in their teen,

Rugged, ***** but in need of touch very humane.

She wondered about the mayhem!

Were their choices made for them?

She realised all the seven missing ones,

Had once worked for a scrawny girl.

To let go her doubts,

For this reminded her once failure to close,

A case so horrific that gave her the nightmares.

She took her partner in search of the girl,

Off they rode on the horizon,

For minutes,  for hours until dawn,

To find the deserted family in ruin.

Questions, answers, clues were collected,

And a revelation was horrifically found,

A girl in the midst of a family so profound,

Was assaulted, abused, ***** and her innocence robbed.

Until with an ounce of courage and vengeful mind,

She ran away till her legs no longer could.

On her trail did they follow,

To town after town astonishingly mellow,

Leaves on the paths so yellow,

Reminded of her horrid days that had made her shallow.

They followed with deep angst,

The stories that unfolded cried screams of disgust,

All her victims abused and mutilated,

As she laid the stones of thirst and distrust.

The trail stopped and kills ended,

Had she stopped for good?

Or taken a break to pray give authorities a ride?

Days, months, years passed.

The case picked dust as expected.

Yet another bright lit morning,

And a child had gone missing,

Was she back and killing?

As the police bagged the wet boots and a beige coat!

INTP
Introvert
Intuitive
Thinker
Perceiver
Highly intellectual but
score lower than expected on
standardized tests
Fascinated with the world
Plan maker and
abandoner
Frighteningly unemotional and seemingly moves on from devastating events rapidly
Acts self absorbed but
truly cares for people under the cold exterior
Often feels detached from the world
Unable to articulate great idea and thoughts exactly
Loves to argue and debate
for learning sake but
some don’t see it as
friendly banter
Called the mad scientist without
convention
An absent-minded wonderfully built learner,
That INTP

god gives glory in defeat and
i search through that darkness that
excludes and gives light to
heavy hearts.

darkness that is contradictory in its ways because
it gives birth to lux in secrecy and
play, then allows you to succumb to better things.

like an evil queen he hides her up in a tower,
veiled by turbulent, tumultuous clouds that thunder and roar
to drown out her screams for rescue.

as i trek on i tell myself,
"**** a demon today, face the devil tomorrow.",
but i have been in hell too long,
and i can no longer tell the difference between
feathered wings and ghoul kings.

on stone-paths, i hear the angels of mercy sing.
their notes lead the way,
but somehow i get caught up in the stupor.

i search through darkness to find the light.
light shone on darkness and
darkness did not come.

yet i still wear his helmet.

I

Side street in a yellow town,
Nothing happens but a heavy breathing man.
Careful steps to Linda Linda’s home,
This day, thinks he, is a barn owl’s song-

Something else moves the wind chime,
Something else shoos the leaves.
Linda Linda if you will.

Did you lock your keys in the car again?
I walked.
Just be quiet.
I willed.

But dust covers furniture as love eclipses better love
When wetted too much down where divers don’t dare,
Dropped. Left in mud.
Linda Linda did and dared.

II

Whale 1 one looked at Whale 2 and sighed, swimming off.

III

Owl,
You *******.
Where love is once now love is mud,
Look what these doctors have dared and done.

Whales,
You kindly kindred floated friends,
You saw her last
Sinking moment

And you’ll see my last eye cried dry,
Something else moves the yellow tide.

And ******* You,
Smile crying, drowning and fat now,
It was probably
Just as beautiful as you wanted.