Doors Of Discordia

The calmest moments

Are in the empty space

Beyond the wooden door

Hovering around us.

Every quiet breath

Draws it slightly closer,

Forever hanging over,

Until we stop.

Attractive, perhaps,

Although frightening.

Merely turn the handle,

Simplicity itself,

Though how abhorred

To be betrayed or forced

Through the other side

Against our will.

Whatever else

Could inspire such fear,

Fascination, anger, sadness,

And lust.

Tranquility or Hell,

Loves loved and lost,

Escape and imprisonment,

Falling,… Fallen,… Fall,…

 

 

 

What Do You Know?

Confused and/or vain,

Evil and/or repugnant,

Count the discrepancies

And steel yourself for more.

Perceptions are abundant

As insults and judgments,

And finding fit words

For yourself is a chore.

Impressions are often biased,

Labels often fall short,

Even platitudes of passion

And support miss their mark.

Life would be so muddled,

So indiscernibly complex.

Simplicity is transgression,

We’re beyond light and dark.

Solitude in expression

Mirrors bolder without eyes.

Honesty is easy

With an audience of one,

But self-revealed truths

Fall flat upon the senses

Leaving deep and shallow guesses

The best from anyone.

 

 

Why Is There No Perfect Place?

A world to be happy in,

To be lost in,

Just to rest again

Without this stress,

This uncertainty,

This anxiety,

Taken hold of me

Having hurt.

Show me mountains,

Show me fountains,

The sublimest

Of their kind.

Let me stay there,

Waste away there,

I shouldn’t dare

But I would

To sleep forever

In beauty’s tether,

A watcher weathered

Down to rocks.

Defiance In Love

Lucifer fell

Into the quiet twilight

To look through the window

Of a secluded home.

Her silver wings chilled

In the pine-scented air,

With the frost on her breath

Rising against the glass.

The last waneing candle

Threw light to the form

Wrapped up in a blanket

Collapsed on the floor.

Hand to the frame

And her face pressing close,

The light and the shadow

Danced over the reposed

While frost ate away

The one brain who still knew

What depths of tribulation

The Angels went through.

The insanity of fortune,

The lunacy of life,

The meaningless chasm

Of fractured love.

Reposed on the floor,

In seven breaths or less,

Of a sudden and quiet

Didn’t work anymore.

The death of a dream

Like a paradise of light

Lost from expectation,

From memory, and sight.

Lucifer fell

Away from the pane

With a sigh at her lips

And eyes shuttered with rage.

The frost in her wings,

The misery that aches,

The cruelty in love

Of defiance to faith.

 

Corpse Conscious

Visceral reality

Blood, muscle, and flesh,

All elements of the body

So palpably aware.

A carnal revelation

In litanies of pain

Written by dissection

On cerebellum walls.

So pliable and weak,

So simple to restrain,

So sensitive to touch,

Manipulatable and soft.

Do bones of the starved

Congeal into demons

To slake their thirst

On our living blood?

Do hordes of average men

Yearn for satisfaction

In the sight and feel

Of our mangled forms?

Should I desire much

To be just a ghost,

An incorporeal dust

Just floating alone?

And how would that soothe

The screaming I hear

From a younger sibling

Whose cat ran away?

Thaw Me

Steam over snow

Melting away my dust

Vapor over crystal

I’m desperate to become,

Killing everyone

Fucking away the pain

Just won’t cut it

And I can’t even run,

Smile and a kiss

Without a worry for once

I’m still waiting

I’m still too numb,

Blood over snow

Lounging in my wreckage

Anger over fear

And the damage was done.

Not like this,

Not frozen in my hate,

Please, just a kiss,

I’ve waited for too long,

Please,

I’m so sorry,

I’m ready to move on.

 

A Poetry Poem

I wish I could express

In speech as I do in writing

How much I feel about you,

How heavily I care,

How deeply you affect me,

And everything that means.

Mind to mind,

Or empathy to recognition,

In terms of verbal exchange

Is apt to be uncomfortable.

You can read my poems

And feel me more fully

Than you ever could’ve felt me

Face-to-face.

Extrordinary circumstances

Might expose our true emotions,

But the mundanity of self-consciousness

Prevents a simple telling.

I can try,

And occasionally do well,

But I’ve little hope of equaling

The context of the written word.

I love you.