A stone caress, the ageless green

a flower that whithers and disappears

yet roots, a dressing over ancient ground

Perennial magic tricks for garden mice.

Beauty she says

Falling fast into an open portrait, the visage of light trickling open doors in strange places

his eyes open doorways and spin halls between his wrists, parting lips that speak like bubbling streams

with an awkward embodiment of nature and tenderness in his hands like soothing song

Breathing forth into her

Beauty he says

We forgot our own name, the one within this very phrase,

We forgot it all, we remember it well.

We forgot our name, a dog yapping at a ball that it rolled under the livingroom sofa itself.

We forgot our own bodies, that which begged answer underneath the cedar,

We forgot it all, we clamored desperately.

We forgot our bodies, a child crying unprovoked in loving arms and warm caress, blind in the night.

We forgot our own solidarity, born anew becoming Us,

We forgot it all, we search for it endlessly.

We forgot our solidarity, and we were content.

We forgot our own name,

We only remember us.

A road within your eyes

A lie can hold it's truth

I look up at the sky

and look down on my youth

One may chose death over life

To vindicate and lacerate, their holy position

Poised arabesque over a mountain of bones.

Spread eagle yet she soars, nowhere

Plastered on her back succumbed to a manifestation of self doubt

A deadly weight poeticised by flow of time

Are you certain you are here?

A deer, hypnotized by hallowed light

Mummified in gentle white, casting stars from catatonic pools of black.

Her mirror becomes a valley,

Or is it a chasm, moved by the weight of certain indecision

Cataclysmic, she fissures and sweat fills her like the river Styx

She flows deeply, stygian, a rippling void in the fabric of the sky

Where stars once danced they now leap,

Making bounds as to not be devoured in the vacuous breath of night

As nothingness is bred, wholeness is conceived

In a rhythm both frantic and calculated

We lay in bed to still the raucous cacophony of vibrations

For she trembles in anxiety, or is it the motion of the universe

Laying softly unto her as she steadies endless breath

Tracing the moon with a protruding tongue, waning.

Obsequious is man, woman stretching limbs as roots and vines

Flesh searing flesh, bone carapace cradling tender organs

Sooner would she extricate bone for supple keys

For music vindicates as a consummate symphony, while the heart lacerates

Taciturn, we call for release

Is that not the motion behind all things

    There is no light to contrast in a room with no windows, no beads of sun to caress the face and kiss the brow. Licking and warming it to a gentle furrow. About the mind there is a body, outside that body a room. There hangs from the ceiling beaded chandeliers of glossy light, casting brilliant reflections along the floral printed walls. Candelabras watching about themselves, casting shadows as a scepter of light would, or perhaps a golden pitchfork holding sticks of brilliant fire. Ceilings sloping. She moves in elegance or is it an ephemeral jest? A cacophonous announcement of joy in lightly thrown steps and carelessly strewn pirouettes. To be a singular entity, one outside itself. Although others were present it seemed as though she was the only to really exist.

    There in the empty space exists another, a stranger in candid stance. A rock in the stream, strangers flowing about him as if he was not there, how? Naturally. He existed just beyond the skirts of reality. Hair of raven, thick with the dreams of women and nightmares of men. Hand outstretched as if an invitation. Hers raised loosely above tangles of pearly locks. Brilliant white cloaked about him as though light from above came jutting in through the ceiling in a great blaze of fire, now heaving and walls whispering about them. Contrast in the night. A figure of divine shape and chivalry. Perhaps reluctance forms itself a physicality, it resides in the man's shadow. It resides in the walls. In the faceless strangers who seemed to have slowed their dance, weaving fingers together and bracing hands. Reluctance, could that be all? A fear perhaps inviting into her realm, her sanctity, another. His eyes seemed to look through her. She gazed back as though they commanded it.

    Were there even strangers at the ball? A stillness ensumed, metaphysical presence by the creature before her. Too shadowy to be conceived as real yet still she stared, still she stretched her hand to greet his own. The room now reeled, walls becoming shadows in the inky black carapace of the evening. Looming figures replaced in the nothingness that surrounded them. Identity becoming consumed by solid darkness. Did they exist before? Was she even truly there? He pressed his body to hers and entwined together they fall into the abysmal stretch, music once booming now a muffled whisper in the back of her head. His eyes were prisons. Empty space inviting in the reflection of a dancing coquette.  

    Angel, devil, demon in white. What does it matter? She feels a weight, hot as flame and just as blue and brilliant in the press of his body. There is a sudden magnetic pull, silent demand. A lack of presence in his eyes. His fixation on her glowing pools of consciousness, stringing threads into her soul with hooks of desire. The tip of her tongue felt heavy and out of place in her mouth. She licked her lips. Wrong. Is it wrong? To sense in another the essence of evil, to know there is no boundary, that there is inherent self interest, sensual and shameless drive for satisfaction. Darkness. She breaks his gaze for but a moment to see there is nothing left. Without light there exists no walls, without sound there exists no life. Without life there exists no man, yet still he stands. Where is she?

    Stygian, a looming insignificance in the absolution of all life. The forgiveness of being by the unforgiving grasp of night. The presence of nothingness. Lacking. Ringing, Ceaseless. There is nothing. There is no sound. There is no breath in a room without air, a room without walls. The floor dissipates, and into nothing she falls. It is only them, there exists nothing. He is skirting about the edge of reality. He breathes not in air but in poetry and prose. He makes no sound but that of music. He is both beautiful and terrifying. Still she falls, She is not certain where she is headed. Her head is not in the future, nor is it in the past, merely in the present.

    Downward

                     Spiraling

                                  Horror

                                             Exists

                                                      And

                                                             In

                                                                 Itself,

                                                                          Love.. 

There is no light to contrast in a room with no windows, no beads of sun to caress the face and kiss the brow. Licking and warming it to a gentle furrow.

There in the empty space exists another, a stranger in candid stance.

Were there even strangers at the ball?

There is nothing...

And it all feels...

Familiar.