“Not a Second”

There was Shakespeare on his tongue,

and a butterfly in his lungs.

Both made his dangerous.

Both rendered him unloved.

He was afraid

of what to say,

of what to feel.

It all got stuck in his throat,

a clump of paper and honey.

Nothing was easier to swallow.

Innocence was one thing,

but courage was another.

To pick up the sword,

to shout into the abyss.

He was new to living,

but he didn’t want to waste it.

The hilt was supple in his palm,

so were the words to that song.

The one in the back of his beautiful mind.

“Pan”

Why is it that we are born with such imagination,

only to have it taken away when we grow older?

There are some of us left, it is true.

But we are not the mighty,

the victorious.

Weeping, strange angels we become,

crying over those who could have been and tortured by the veneer of existing.

What kind of life is that?

When we could use dust to fly instead?

We could do extraordinary things, it is true.

And pretending,

a good play,

may just unlock the secrets of the universe.

“Grain of Perception”

There she stands,

a pillar of salt,

an obelisk.

Her lungs were taken from her,

because she looked back.

She with her eyes like desert pearls,

now covered in sand.

How dare you,

dripping ink on her canvas like she is something to be written. There is no story here.

No one wins the battle and the war does not exist. It is only her, standing there forever because she dared.

And when the night finally falls, tears drip from fingertips,

only you do not get to be the one to wipe them away.

“The Candied Spider”

Falling in the black,

needles from decades past.

When life hands you venom,

you drink it with honey,

throwing up flowers and vinegar.

Devouring the red,

it goes straight to your head,

narcotics standing in your stead.

Passion and poison are one in the same,

collections of a home make,

keeping you awake.

Roses in your hair,

this fancy nightmare,

courts the craving.

And on your tombstone,

engraving.