So here I am again,

in the cross hairs of indecision.

To stay here would be my death,

to come back, my suicide.

I live and die there,

in my sleep.

And every day I resurrect myself,

A new man with the same dreams.

And you’re always in them.

A life and death of your own.

But you always stay, and I always come home.

That’s your home now.

And there you live,

a vague watercolor face in my sleep.

I can’t continue these cloudy inaugurations,

These lucid beginnings, Ambiguous endings.

We can’t keep meeting like this.

You aren’t welcome there anymore.

I’m sure I’ll see you again,

But for now,

I need to sleep on my own.

Creatures Of Habit

This rock.

This tiny blue marble floating in the darkness.

The birth, and resting place of vicious, simple creatures.

Creatures of habit. 

At the hands of these sentient machines, blue will fade to Black.

Autonomous little sheep, dance like marionettes dangling under the Shepard.

Powerful like God’s, they spit in the face of the darkness.

And just like a man that throws dust into the wind

No one will be blinded but themselves.

That’s okay.

It’s just one rock.

Just one tiny blue marble…

In the Arms of Bliss 

It’s strange how we break down mountains from the bottom of a valley.

I guess you can say misery loves company.

I guess it feels good when landslides sink to our level.

Oh, how I’ve misjudged the tender feeling of ignorance.

How wonderful it feels to be in the arms of bliss.

We all do it.

We all hug it back.

We all let sweet nothings whisper in our ears.

Telling us to stand amongst the burning trees and set fires,

or to throw stones in glass houses and watch the walls shatter.

At the very least, redundant.

At most, repulsive-

to let silver tongues lick our necks, and whisper to us, like we never had a choice at all.

But we did.

We chose to dwell in valleys,

and to bring mountains down with us.

How I hate what we’ve become.


Reality. That’s what  I can see.

And that’s all there is, here,

outside the lines of concrete, 

inside the partition.

The world turns so slowly 

when Clocks of sand don’t tick around me. 

This city of trees is crowded, 

but no one speaks.

Now, they will barely even breathe.

The autumn breeze kills, and caresses these brittle people.

Caring not, for minutes 

or the hands that carry them.

Time is already standing still.

Because Autumn is Summer’s punctuation. 

A period that separates life and death, hot and cold.

The last grain of sand before the hour glass turns

And when the snow falls, life will pause, like it too, needs to smell the roses.

A short while to reset the clock, and begin again.

One day soon, life will go on.

Red to Blue

You’re all I think about

I can be anywhere, at any time

And nothing will suffice

Something won’t even suffice anymore

And why do I still see you?

Though, I gaze upon your soul through stained glass eyes

I see all of your colours and cracks

Splattered on the wall as the light seeps through

Pain by pane, red to blue, the pieces tell more than a story

It’s An eloquent ode to a bigger picture

But I’ll never seep through

I’ll never see the other side

But it’s still worth looking