Stars Uncrossed, Bad Cupid Flight.

I hate you. I love you. I hate you. I love you.
Damn it! Not the poem I want to write.
Fuck bitterness. Fuck being right.
Something broke and someone wrote.
Love or lust or passion all a toss?
Insanity gone a gimper and obsession quite cross.
Woke one mourning and all washed away.
Unsure if I ever loved you.
I know I said I did, I did, I did.
I screamed my passions, drowned red in ink so bright.
Lit my soul on fire and cried in fright.
Nothing left but ashes now.
All grey and white.
I look at you and feel this nothing,
no, that’s not quite right.
Bemused I am no pain to feel, no passions wain.
The memories there, without a care,
void of tension, pencil marks, faded words
rubbed soft by time and loss.
The flowers wilt in moonlight
and chocolate melts, the card unopened
sitting there.
Mementos of a moment gone,
a time without a care.




All That I am

I willingly submit myself to the Dance.
Into the fires of Destruction
I am dancing.
Purified I emerge
Created from the Fires
And I shall Dance again.
Created I am, anew.


Meditations on Death

As the aged blossom falling to the ground
so go I, to dissolve these borrowed elements of form
in the waning darkness of life’s last breath.
Of which shall I hope, a new light or everlasting peace?



Wasteland, deep cold surrounds me.
Wandering lost in deep desolation, searching
nothing is solid, nothing truly exists
The brightest sun glitters off the snow
The bluest blue overhead as my breath clouds before me
Scanning the horizon, finding the edge of white against blue.
In this stillness,
I find I am deeply alone.

Though, unseen
if I only had ears to listen
the sniffle and twitch of mousy noses
the scurry of feet deep in the soil
the fluff of feathers warming rooks
the bubble of the brooks
the crackle of the snow warmed.
Alone in the cold,



Metamorphosis of thought

In the dark there is life
all I am reduced to elements
Six times before, the hum came, it shed it’s outer skin
each growing and stretching and reaching further out
A lasting nibble of leaf with the setting sun to humming
and pulls itself up to safety under a branch
weaving fresh gossamer threads of the darkness of sleep
becoming translucent, a shell, hardening, a keeping
dissolving inside what it once was, all that which was born in the spring sun
gone the chewing form, gone the inching wiggle, gone the creature of the leaf
In the humming movement deep inside…
were there enough elements to assemble
this new primordial template
so it may stretch and reach the skies?
And we wait.
Waiting for the inner hum of a cracked shell.