Imperfections

There are fractures
on the surface, or course,
but also inside


right down to the very
core. A house of cards
fabricated from the
most fragile glass, ready to


topple down at the
merest hint of a
breeze. Fragility


and imperfections 
that have become such
second nature, glue 
always on hand 
to reconstruct the
frail foundation of our


existence. A leaning
tower of imprecise
oddities, jammed together,
hoping, someday, to


get it right.

Colour Fill

I sit, and watch.
People come and go,
slipping through me
in a haze
a phase
of endless days,
blurring together.


I sit, still and silent,
letting the storm of
days wash my thoughts
away,
so I stay.


I live, barely,
I breathe.


I sit, disconnected from 
the blurred world
around me.
Wondering...
Do they notice me here?


Colours blur together
like a long forgotten paints
on a slanted easel,
dripping through each other,
until they are nothing
but a meaningless melange
slipping down, down, down,
like rain,
gathering in the gutter,
touched by new drops,
swirling into new pictures
that mean nothing,
but change persistently,
none-the-less. 

Full Circle

Finally, the world breathes,
slows down, 
takes a moment to let the
buds of flowers yet to come
tentatively test the air.


The unassuming white clouds
drift listlessly by.


The new flowers watch 
as the sun takes over the sky,
blinding the world with her
hot, white heat.


The water offers scarce relief
from the unrelenting heat.
The glorious hotness 
causes the leave


to shrivel, lose their green
glow, and fall to the ground,
quilting the earth,
protecting it from the first
white flake fluttering from
the tumultuous grey sky. 


The street in the lamplight
is postcard perfect,
and magic sings from every
dazzling light, 
even as the cold increases.
biting hands and faces as
fireworks stain the sky.


The cold drags on eternally,
the drifts closing in on the sidewalk.


Slowly, people and birds
begin to sing again,
welcoming the rain that
feeds the seeds that have 
been without its life-sustaining
succulence for months.


The rain stops.
Finally, the world breathes,
slows down,
takes a moment to let the 
buds of flowers yet to come
tentatively test the air. 

In the Middle of a Crowded Room

Surrounded by space,

yet there’s no room to breathe.

Surrounded by people,

and there’s nobody to talk to.

All my false friends hold me

so close

and I’ve never felt so alone.

They smile, and pretend

we are so connected.

We aren’t, of course.

It’s all a sham,

all a lie,

nothing’s real after all.

There’s a loop,

but I’m not in it.

I never was, and

somehow, I don’t think

I ever will be.

Once upon a daydream,

I was surrounded by people

who knew me,

and who I knew

just by looking at them.

But it was only a daydream,

only a memory.

Gone, before

I could suck the sweet

nectar from its

blossom.

Liar, Liar

Who do you think you're fooling?


The lies that perhaps 
seemed flawless
are now decaying,
exposing gaping holes,
like yesterday's 
moldy fruit.


You're diseased,
infected with falsehoods,
until you are 
nothing more than
a precarious tower
of lies, upon which
you base your existence.


We can see through you,
to your parts.


Once, you may 
have been able to 
charm your way through life.


But now


it's only a matter of 
time before your
world crashes and burns
and we step over 
the pieces.

Black Holes

It doesn't come from other things. It comes from you. It's a swirling vortex of grey sickness that is all-consuming. 


If you went into a black hole, people say your body would be wrenched limb from limb--disintegrate in the vacuum... They're wrong. I know where black holes lead. The swirling black void leads straight into a soul that knows darkness. So people that fall into black holes lose themselves, and become part of the soul they decide to torture, pulling it in a thousand different directions so that the person becomes a tentative holding place for the turmoil within--a fragile breeding ground for sorrow, and your worst nightmares. 


Try, and try, and fail to swallow everything, push it aside, cry out every voice so that the black hole will disappear, and you will be able to hear yourself think again. People who fall into black holes aren't people any longer. They come out at the other end, in some unhappy soul, and begin to swirl and dance, a tenuous, melancholy promenade around and around just under the heart and above the stomach, pulling everything into somewhere that it isn't supposed to be, melting their carrier into a twisted mess, that no longer resembles the vibrant whole that once existed there. 

After The Turn of The Seasons

It's hard to live here. Nothing else does. Everything is white, or grey. Except the lake. The lake is obsidian glass, as dark and murky as it is unforgiving. But the worst part is the stillness. Nothing moves. The trees don't settle. The snow seems to hang in the air, suspended on a breath from long ago. There are no bird to sing, no animals to jump, no life. Just a vast expanse of endless stillness and emptiness. Not waiting for anything, simply austere and unwelcoming. It doesn't want anything or anybody to disturb it. It's a picture from a book. Just a painting. A hundred thousand paintings of the same scene revolving slowly, letting the stillness hang, and cling to our bones. 


Until the footprints. The first footprints break the crispy surface, and suddenly it is a wonderland. The snow frosts the trees, a thousand bright diamonds glittering when the sun breaks through to cast our shadows on the icy terrain. Suddenly, it is our friend. It lives and breathes for us and because of us. It lends us weapons when we need them, holds us close to it, like a friend, a warm blanket, welcome after a long day. An old friend. Perhaps forgotten, but never fully left behind.