"Keep moving," I said as I ran through the town

with both my feet treading on wet, grimy ground.

The people behind me looked hopeless and dead

with each of their faces contorted with dread.

We ran down the alley, pursued by the guard,

who mistakenly thought it was us who had marred

the great chapel at Queensreach with coal dark as night

and now we made rounds round the town in our flight.

Into the countryside, into the fields,

each of the farmers all counting their yields

of the new autumn's harvest of ripe honeydew.

Through this expanse, our cavalcade flew:

chased by the guardsmen on horseback with bow

they tore through our numbers; their arrows did sow

great discontent among men and their needs

who knew that this blood would not nourish their seeds.

Seeds that they planted to feed the guardsmen,

who slaughtered the children, pinning them in

the warm summer's dirt, hard-tilled by the ox,

but soon they'd be lying in their own wooden box

lowered six feet beneath the wet, grimy ground

by the guardsmen that killed them, in the middle of town

beside of the chapel all blackened with soot

by vandals not chased through the alleys on foot.

We all died that day for a simple mistake,

and now we lie buried, never to wake.

So don't lift a hand if in it lays coal,

or forever you'll lay in the ground, you poor soul.

I've spent my nights dreaming

of worlds. People. Places

that are not lodged firmly

within the comfortable confines

of my computer chair.

I've spent my nights thinking

of circumstances and reactions

of individuals I'd never want to be.

Characters that live and breathe

and want and love and feel.

Beings with aspirations

and dreams.

I've spent my nights writing

stories that are seen by

only one other,

and while the `other' changes,

I do not.

I am the constant driver of

misery and hope and happiness

and every other feeling.

I've spent my nights realizing

that I have to spend my nights

on something.

That it's telling how I'd rather

spend it in my head through text.

That I'd rather live vicarious.

I've spent my nights as a god

of loss. A god of a new dawn.

A god of constant change.

And I've found through pen

and text

that I make a terrible deity.

this house of nails bleeds hot

with blood fresh-drawn from veins

bursting with promise and promises

and desire and desirous

delirium brought on by nights

spent shedding tears and screams

into pillows that once smothered

and snuffed at a light long lost

or a lamp long dimmed

this house of bones shakes and rattles

at the slightest hint of hope

long-since run as dry as the starch-white

material that gives the house its name

it bends and warps in cardboard breezes

singing melancholy songs and hymns

to the church beside that hasn't had

members in years

this house of salt stands dry and barren

stricken into form by a builder large

on wrath and small on mercy

it stands square at the corner of no

and you don't deserve it anyway

it hurts the eyes and sucks arid

any who dare enter and stay

abandon all hope does it no justice

this house of chains is anchored

in the bedrock of respect hard-earned

through months of careful navigation

though now it falters and sways

violent to one side eagerly

this house is mine and mine to live in

this house is built from what i had

this house is made from tools i know

this house is all i have

Of the lover's leaves in summer, in full view plain to see,

it's easier to speak of them - I've found this true to be.

But of their leaves come winter, when hidden by the cold,

it's then you'll find with thought in mind

what's stirring in the soul: a deeper kind of meaning,

a warmer kind of touch - a hidden longing deep inside

whose blooms do try to clutch. For with the spring we learn then

we're all the cycle's pawn, and darling you keep blooming

each day from dusk to dawn.

it's shaped like a father - ragged and torn

and down through the years upon you it's worn

that cold, sinking feeling that never you'll be

something worth loving, something worth me

me or another, family or friend

or sister or brother; none of them can mend

that ripped-out part that inside you once beat

torn out by a coward, whom never i'd meet

it's a vortex of silence, a deep void of naught

it doesn't have feeling; it doesn't have thought

it eats at you daily, in your mind it teems

and devours you nightly, deep in your dreams

it's a burden you carry, and you carry it well

at least in the daytime, when most think you're swell

but your insides are churning, you just want to die

but you won't give up easy, so instead you just cry

you cry for what's happened, you cry for what's not

you cry for the things that their evil has wrought

you cry for your failures, you cry for your sins

and you cry for your family, you cry for amends

but you still pull your chin up and face every day

and you've got a whole lot that sharp mind can say

you've got a great heart, and a beautiful soul

and you make many happy, you make many whole

so don't give up easy, don't give up yet

you're future's not written, your future's not set

it's left to be pinned and you'll pin it well

that feeling will pass, love, i know time will tell

a predilection for failure, a set of mistakes

a hot mess of no is what keeps me awake

as i stare into space thinking how it went wrong

reflecting on thoughts and moving along

to search through my house for a cure for my ills

so i pour out the water to wash down these pills

that help me to focus, that help me hang on

that remind me i'm human, that get me to dawn

so i lay head to pillow and shut down my mind

and let calm my body and so slips the time

and i feel once at peace, a sweet sense of rest

but eight hours hence comes forth my next test

and am i so ready to face the new day?

i'll do what i can, i'll do what they say

i'll do what they ask and i'll do what they need

and i'll do it correct and i'll do it with speed

and i'll better myself and i'll do it for me

and i'll love every moment and i'll live like i'm free

I stood upon a clearing, a towering slab of earth:

the world below me dancing, swirling in its mirth.

I saw the sky then darken, and the rain began to fall,

And I wondered if anything meant anything at all.

I felt my pulse accelerate, my brow grew damp with fears

as I watched the clouds above me grow heavy with their tears.

And I heard the thunder clap with wrath as the lightshow started on,

all the while the wind picked up in the morning light of dawn.

Those drops of liquid fell down fast with heavy, forceful blows

and filled up quick with water black down in the rutty lows.

This inky ichor, black as sin, moved its way along,

rising slowly up to me, sticky, vile, and wrong.

And as this aggregate of drops roiled with fervorus rage,

I felt it reach the clearing then, covering the stage.

The stage I stood upon at first, looking at the green,

which now was naught but memory, blackened and obscene.

Its viscid, tacky, angry mass devoured whole my feet,

moving swiftly up my legs, igneous with heat.

The pain rushed through my veins with ire; I screamed aloud in fright

and knew right then that no one there could help me with my plight.

As it moved above my chest my mouth began to shout,

but my throat was dry and lungs collapsed so that no words came out.

Finally I saw a glow through the cracking sky,

the dawn's first light and my last sight as I said my last goodbye.

Before I woke I felt a sense of all-consuming peace,

and I let my worries slip away as I allowed my life to cease.

not even a whisper, not even the time

could hold back the rage that was violently mine

a tumultuous torrent of ruinous woe

that ripped and tore and shattered them so

a rage held in check; now loosed upon men

a swelling, cacophonous swirling of sin

that swallowed up districts in calamitous song

cascading down bloody, wrathful, and wrong

it consumed and devoured, size ever-daunting

and lashed out hot, avariciously wanting

the downfall of friend and not-friend alike

its gaze set wildly to nowhere in sight

it built and it built to roaring crescendo

an impossible girth, (not innuendo)

until it crashed down in white, blinding light

piercing the veil and dispelling the night

and it faded and felt like nothing transpired

a faint memory of a time not desired

a rage like a fireflash, an echoing shiver

not even a thought, not even a whisper.

There's a glance you gave to me that made me see and seem

not like all the other men that joined you in their dreams.

It made me feel down deep inside a special kind of fear;

knowing that despite my work it'd only end in tears.

But you took my heart right by its strings and tied it in a bow

and let me know you cared for me and that you loved me so.

You tore me down to blood and bone and washed away the grime.

You scrubbed away the dirt and grit and gave away your time

to mend up a man that had no right to call himself the same:

to patiently sit down and pause and play the waiting game.

And wait you did for thirty years with brilliant, sparkling eyes:

watching my heart beat on screen, surrounded by the lies

that one day soon I'd jolt awake and give to you my thanks

but hope faded with your eyes and you joined them in their ranks.

The ranks of those that understood my time was coming fast

and even then you sat in place, stubborn to the last.

You took right then my hand in yours, worn and torn by age,

and remained unmoved and resolute as I shuffled off this cage.

Because you knew that in this life we only get one chance

and all of this, your love, your soul... was given in a glance.

Riots of color explode on my skin

telling me please, just don't sin again.

The powder it tickles my flesh and my form,

asking "what is it that you find the norm

that so twists up your sense of desire

bringing you ever higher and higher

towards what it is you'll never achieve

further, why is it that you always must leave

halfway through the task being done

always feet first, helping you run

from family and friends that support you with love

from those that give you advice from above

like a celestial god, lifting the veil,

telling the tales that wise men must tell,

telling you all that can be achieved,

whispering nothings that won't be received

because here you are sitting in a dimly lit room,

growing older, larger, making a tomb

out of sunkist cans and old bits of trash

while the rest of the world goes by in a flash

making progress in ways that you never will know,

so why is it so that you always must go

with the easy way out; the way most usually do

when you know that you're better, that you're not close to through

with your mission, your statement, your treatment of others

the things that define you, your friends, teachers, and brothers,

those that were there when you needed them most,

those that will gladly see you off with a toast

to a name that they know means something to them,

because that's what you are: a solid, good friend

that gives level advice that you don't take yourself

because 'that would take effort, that would take wealth'

as you lie once again that you can't climb this tower

but fuck that man, you just lack willpower

a flaw you've had since you've been alive

but just get up, just get down and jive

with the program of life, it's not getting easier

it's not getting pretty, it's just getting greasier

it's just getting dirty, so don't mind the fuss,

and don't take this seriously, after all, I'm just dust."