Sleep does not seem to
Be an adequate remedy
For my lethargy.

I long for the deepest slumber;
A coma's freedom.
Rest not only for my eyes,
But for my conscience.


(c) 2016 Brandon Antonio Smith

With our own hands
Destiny is sculpted
The passion of youth
Molding a masterpiece

Time is unyeilding
Chipping away the details
The marble soaks in the pain
Cracks trickle chaotically
Death bombards innocence
Worn and weathered

Building dreams of clay
The beauty in life fades
Some find solice in destruction

Lonely little flower
Hiding from the rain
Waiting for the sunshine
To warm you through again
Don't wilt or bend or wither
For tomorrow you will shine
And there bees that visit you
Will keep your love devine

Formed in the furnace
of colliding matter,
from colorful dust we arose.
Our journey is timeless
and complex to the core.
Yet we bravely stand bold,
as we venture into the unknown.
Gifted with love and given
strength by connections.
Our Existence in itself,
a miracle to behold.

Oh what music
Hides behind
Such rosy puckered lips
Such sin in a smile
But the secrets kept
Cannot be seen
While we're both
Wrapped into a failing scene

escape with me, starry-eyed
a smoky shadowland
where sin is infinite
hell warmly embraced
and lust a syrupy *****.

desire is so crookedly pristine
when untouched by
the ugly delusion you call love

luring, seducing
the inky ebony of eve
coaxes us sweetly, chillingly
to join its empty prisoners --

passion aches
inject me with your raven smoke;
crave me,
consume me

come and dip with me in the night
where our veiled vices can find relief;
its venom will feed my impure nocturne
and your wicked clutches can snake into
the perverse piths of my phantasm and person.

Somedays
the wonder never ceases
and within me
it's all that was meant to be.

Steer me toward definition
a destiny lingering
longing to be beyond disbelief.

Forcefully it waivers forward
like winds pushing heartily
through motionless trees.

Disturb not a soul
they have not yet lain to rest
all that was dealt.

And then dealt the end.

Into the goblet of life did I poor myself, convivially jaunting; jumping for the juniper as if jolted into life for the first time by the cosmic current that sublimely filtered reality from the dream that had become my truth.

I, beheld to the newly found perceptions, careening through the trees, trampling upon crisp leaves, on my way to scenic experiences, was ever looking forward to the hopeful thrill and living in anticipation of the next climactic excitement.

I would be unable to be complemented by the moment, in which I did not truly live.

The adventure became a tragedy,
As is always with the changing of innocence into untoward regret.

Tears were novelties that were bartered for kindness, traded for the rhyme, but never the shine.

Illumination is priceless.