The houses rotted,
The roads cracked and slowly eroded,
Power lines toppled,
And trees retook the place of grass.
Lives had finished,
Completed, but never replaced,
Leaving everything behind
For the mildew and quiet to claim.
Everyone had gone,
And they left a fragmented remembrance,
The ruins of excess
And poverty adapted into shadow palaces.
When everyone goes
I only hope there will be ghosts,
So someone could see
The beautiful remains of our failures.
The arguments died,
All sides are eventually silenced.
Grief lost her way
Without any survivors to guide her.
Indecisions without resolve,
Like half-empty beds and unfinished poems
Revert back to objects
Removed from anxiety and desire.
Landscapes of thought
Retaining echos without sound.
When everything falls
I hope to see what happens then.
To see how unknowable
Our intentions and dreams become.
The kind that sink into you like a sickness,
That grow into hooks strung between our chests.
We understand our world
By seeing it through each other’s words,
Our gazes and movements
Imparting wisdom only we can comprehend.
Reason and purpose,
They’re ours as disciples of one another.
In peace or war
We’re formidable as fortified emotions.
Tragedy is our past.
Romance is our blissful tragic future.
With cake and tension
We unload and collapse in each other’s voids.
Our dresses complimentary,
My blue, your red, wrapped in purple sheets.
We own our faults,
Our secrets our own to whisper in confidence.
Alive and secure within our bounds.
Could I ever be loved as completely
As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?
Mortality and eternity,
Subjects so situated in time
That occupy my emptiness
The way I wish I was admired.
Could I fill your mind
And terrify your sense of being
In such a way as to change
The reality of your inner quiet?
People are like night skies,
Shifting their position and meaning,
So when you gaze at me
I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.
We are mysterious and complicated things,
Too important for casual recognition,
And if I’m ever to be loved again
It must be worth our fullest attention.
I can’t afford bed sheets or makeup.
Beautified dreams, somehow, still come easily.
Even in poverty, the luxury of abstraction
Soothes me daily, in depression or inspiration.
Streetlights on snowy nights
Hold more potential than money or connections.
Shadows in the urban landscape,
More real than set ideals or purchased thrills.
Somewhere is an inevitability
Waiting to be dreamed into vibrant shapes.
Magenta rain against black skies,
Sleeping bodies forgetting their encroaching doom.
I can’t afford bed sheets or makeup,
But in my mind, I repose against splendid fashionings.
The faintest glimmer of peace and satisfaction
Awakes, and gives me space to keep imagining.
Five wolf pups sleeping soundly,
Dreaming fantasies to dull their pains.
Every morning they woke to play
With new defenses in their brains.
They dreamed of screamed beratement,
Careless running through the trees,
Getting lost in friendless spaces,
Or simply flying away, free.
Fears and desires breed
The strangest images in wolf pup heads,
The seeds of future habits
They’ll follow, fight, and feed.
Meantime, another day for playing
Running on in spite of what they’ve seen.
If I could manipulate my own soul
I would become so many other things;
A character in my favorite books,
A God of my imagined mythos,
An active observer of human history,
An Angel of guidance and/or death,
A spirit floating through endless space,
A designer of perpetual dramas,
A stranger in the realm of dreams,
A composer of symphonies of light,
A voyager through heaven and hell,
A state of being beyond space and time,
An immortal Goddess ruling empires,
And a mortal shell that made peace with death.
If I could manipulate the reality of my existence,
Would the meaning of anything really change?
Maybe the world is a game.
If it is, then death is just the goalpost.
The timer. The only real rule.
If it is, then dying is our final score.
Working may be desperate.
Wealth or happiness may make a difference.
We all subsist strategically,
Gaining or lacking in different amounts.
Totality pressures us
To decide which pursuits prove worthy
Of conscious individuality
While it’s ours to compare and contrast.
It’s just a poem.
Writing, but we know it’s a burden.
Words are ours to choose
Until space confines us to a stop.