I am but a rose of beginning green,*
imprisoned to darkness all day,
within a monumental fiend,
who covers up the radiance that I want to give away

Occasionally a small opening would be sewn
into the darkness' fiery grasp
and your pure radiance could be shown
concealed in a kindhearted mask

Share your light with me
and for you I will light the way
wrapped in an unfamiliar livery
prepared for our intimacy till the end of our days

We will cross waters on a homebound stretch
and become fuel for our endurance,
so beautifully etched

I'll take my chances, following the sun
the garden we grow
means that together, we are one

Share your light with me,
and forever I will stay.
my petals can become your livery
we need each other, I daresay.

Seas of concrete,
with fish climbing from the cracks.
Evil portent.
Growing hands brandishing knives.
Tongues in their eyes,
that slither with whispering intent.

Each whisper grows a wing
and a leg, hops and *****;
pointless dregs.

Filling each space,
With slashes and wild blind hacks.
Pain important.
Fatally finally stealing lives.
Teeth to their lies,
that leave all life impotent.

Each tooth a flutter free,
weightless fee, rots and drops;
pointless dregs.

Reality and uncle Neville
always seem to disagree.
I guess he can't see the
tree for the tree.

To him,Truth's a transparency
that he cannot see beyond.
He must stay faultlessly opaque.
To the material certainty,
of which he's so fond.

Reality and uncle Neville
always seem to disagree.
I guess he can't see the
you for the he.

The only things that
are real to him,
are those that can be held,
but not felt.
Each alternative truth
is a tree to be felled.

Beneath the innocence of a child
Is the yearning desire to rebel,
Not against his or her youth,
But against the universal rules of normality,
Whether it be unleashed within a cupboard below a staircase
Or while sitting in the next room over,
Listening to the sound of what magic could be.  
Perhaps if I keep reading,
This fantasy will live on
In a reality that is, instead,
My own.

As a child’s adolescence blooms,
The morbidity behind what it is to
Repeatedly fall victim to fiction  
Is surreal.
Something that non-readers cannot comprehend
Is that the fantasy does live on in a way that is unfair,
For it simply resides in our ever-seeking minds
In which that same desire to rebel, too, lives on;
As I have already come as close as I ever will
To filling that void.

I keep trying to trying to write,
but the words keep running off into
the night.
While I collapse into docility.

It's as if me and creativity have
gone through a divorce.
I guess I must have thought
with a little too much force.

Maybe if I get a late night snack,
the word's will come running
back to take a bite.  
while I burst into verbosity.

Vegetarian sandpaper snake,
opaque as a back ache.
Tied into steam whipped air.

Needles and spokes,
rustled and restless,
concrete and wingless.

Following a Papel sideshow travelling into town
to form a claim of no coherent ambivalence.
With most moist avuncular symmetric denial.

Reclaiming such winkled names in claws.
Reptile claws of rainbow rhythm or
mindless meter.

Needles and spokes,
rustled and restless,
concrete and wingless.

Turning smile as screws eyes are bolts.
Locked out and locked in.

May I borrow a tomorrow?
I'll trade you today and yesterday.
One is worthless,the other's
too much work.
Just give me the result,
without the effort,
and I'll be on my way.