I cast my soul across the room.
It skitters like marbles,
across the stone tile.
Clacks and pings.

A slender thread of gossamer
seals my hope.

Do you see me?
Do you feel me?

I am an electric passage
in a moldy book, carefully placed.
Discover shredded tin upon your tongue.
Feel the angel’s breath upon your shackled heart.

A muffled rip
and your heart casts dusty specks
throughout a room lit slantly with lemon sun.

This is yours.
This is all of you.
And I am as you are.

The keepers of the wind beckon my return.


Happy is the man!
Content is the fire
that swells
within a torrid heart.

Brief is our dance
with an ephemeral gasp.
Crowded, our thoughts,
with a deluge of fearsome

Twist off.
Sheared and shorn
like a slaughtered lamb.

Dream of collated light
through a broken canopy.
Warm sighs.

What is the product of your reality?
A broken lash of flesh?
A vacant gasp?

Grease and sweat habitate,
pull forth a broken child.
Squander a dying star.
Meager asymtopes
scrape along.

Dream of illuminated sweat,
screaming love.
Dance upon a broken star you child
of creation’s heaven!

Breath your last in freedom.

Whispy drafts of her forlorn cares,
by a roiling beckoning
of fractured heart and vacant dreams.

Having streamed her anger
like a bitter sap,
I recoil at the vapid sting
which dresses my mouth
like a ruby curse.

An alabaster prison.
A darkened glimpse.
A broken longing.
A slender curve torn by
a passing glance.


Decrepit nobility.
Nebulous mornings churn
as they always have.

“A yoke for my neck?”
Freely granted.
Witness the teeming hills clamoring as sun-slaked men
scrape for water.

Chthonic underpinnings.
Lavender souls,
their quickening delayed
by a velvet chain.

The dawn closes just as she awakes.
Her sweeping gaze a torrid curse,
a blinding yawn.



Visage of a gristled slab,
directed flesh caught
within polished stone.

Muted scrawls vanquish
a broken desire.
Feet scrape across raspy planks
towards a speckled dawn.

I long for a torpid desire,
a creaking, throaty moan,
the quivering trees my only witness.

Bless the upward gaze,
the furtive longing,
the silent destiny.