the second coming

everything changes

and nothing changes

winds shake the pillars of ages

seas disappear in the belly of time

receding into the dim light of forever

or waiting for another cycle

I’ve gone through life



to the cheering crowds

hungry for my stories;

I wasn’t even aware that

I was the chosen one

or that my choices were,

in reality, someone else’s;

I often thought it was just a dream

or that I was a jester, a liar,

a shameless entertainer

posing as a philosopher

It takes someone coming back

from the dead to show you

that you’ve never figured out

how to live

nocturne in c sharp minor

breathing blackness

lungs full of nightmares

scorpions of fear in my throat

violins weeping their

bittersweet enchantment -

in the dusk’s smouldering fire

the paper moon

is going up in smoke;

dark leeches feed

on our wanton waiting

we reek of fresh blood

and indifference

we taste like blindness -

air, water, tears -

only loneliness is solid:

a black glass pyramid

filled with white lilies

and fragrant lies.

the taste of poison ivy

i tell myself 

that i must begin writing this story,

finish it

then let it into the wind

so that it will dissipate the darkness,

perhaps be absorbed by other souls,

poison other dreams

and i shall be relieved

and continue my voyage

barefoot, my steps lighter,

no ghosts following me.

there is no separation

between thought and utterance

in the kingdom of words - 

my mouth is full of silence

like wet cotton,

my days carry no light -

i am a puppet of hope,

i am moved by a god

who holds the strings

of cause and effect.

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