The Miss Step

Of the barest site danced I

Through as bare skeletons

Beneath a fearsome wild sky

to prance the dance of fauns



Oh they hide so well

In well timed step

behind the bones that fell

behind the trees that wept



Where oh where my gaze

shall site your fair face

trough the hated haze

of doubt's obscure lace



there also be swords

edges to cut and bleed hope

arrows do become words

flying to pierce what I'd cope



I own my dark past

of time left uncaught

wasted by purity I did fast

I let my flower rot



To know your here in some place

hidden as a clever sprite

I'll hide with my turned face

and think my love not right

Fairious

How many hours has it been since yesterday where I walk upon time itself. I stood not still as the mountains neither was I unchanging as the sun. As it is famously known I will not tarry here when at least they never considered me immobile. Oh but to contentedly tread and blissfully fall and return to the top. Where all the danger lies I'll smile a knowing beam below my shining eyes. It's for all I don't understand that I need so much. You could include love you can also include hope. None of which I could live without and in their absence consider life a useless existence. I'll twist it all! Everything I think I know so well! When something can be said and understood one way can it not be understood and said in another way... I never proposed to be right in such things as writing or at all proficient; only to be consider but not sworn upon that is far too much pressure. I only enjoy seeing how these words twist.



For all those who look at the sunsets and let the colors of life bleed into their souls. Then grab a spoon and find the superhero in you. Its meticulous work for sure, but its profits are well-paying.



What is the next line in my rhyme when at last I was only left breathless before the site in my eyes. The blasts I could hardly stand, the sounds, those looks, it curled me confused. I have paid a great deal for these words, bought with blood and tears. But patience is one who waits beneath the shifting moon, arching through the night. A single dark star. Yet I wait and through the months the stars say all I need to write. Many times I have caught myself saying, "I have been here before". It was one tantalizing reminder and a hint of the world long dead. As in the past world, the one which swirls in our minds. Yesterday. Yet I catch it creeping into today, its subtle bleeds of color on white cloth. However silent it is also painfully vibrant and somehow I always feel powerless to stop those spider web spins; filling pure emptiness with another perfect existence and sustaining occupation of an individual identity. All is fair when the outcomes must be absolute that is why I write in such a way. The colors are all over the place, a mess. Hasn't it been decreed the order of the universe tends to disorder. So isn't the key to understand where I will be is understand the path of that disorder. But to do that I must create disorder or nonsense. At least as much as I can. But this is all nonsense too right? I am just a kid saying what he wants to figure out his emotions in a literary form. Isn't that ripping the mask off a clown! Then you can see who he truly is. These words are only a distraction.



This will be awesome, something to open your eyes. You're upon a cliff staring over an endless ocean, receding into the bended horizon. It is sundown and the colors are brilliant. The rocks beneath your feet are weak, unstable beneath the pressure of your awe. What is the sky? Who are you? The dirt is grainy grinding at your fingertips. Smelling the air, it is full of heat and dust. The wind catches your hair from the east; blowing from a land that now only knows darkness. It is a cool breeze and you know it will permeate everything. What is it to live? You awake in a dream and to fall asleep to life eternal. What is to live though? Falling asleep, you fall and you rise like the tides, yet ever constant. You're a sea and you may change; you colors shift from deep green to deep blue. You are the dark abyss and the safe shallows. Some know you well and others fear you. You are loved and hated. You are the hope of some and the end of others. However you are not a sea. You may tempest and you may rage, the fury of your depths may be known and feared by all. But you are the calm and the peace all long for. You're words are the humming through the reeds. But still more.

Tout à coup

Much of what we had has been lost. Sent to a depth that cannot be reached. But upon this ridge where now we gather as family. I see that we also have gained muched. As the sun rises from the east and a new beginning is seen, great hope rises for the future. It has thus given us strength in our expectant future loss, because it is now known that loss can be gain. Everytime a thief steals from you and still you persist in trying; you win. It is a simple path though difficult to tread upon, its this life that I consider. Maybe you have made peace with all your secret hurt, where as I have still have much to learn. I know it is but a matter of perspective to put to rest those things which bother my side.



Often I write not in understanding, but to understand; tossing out my thoughts like bones and reading their encrypted message. Only I have the need to understand myself, because I am the one I have to live with. Sometimes I view myself as two people, the one you all see and it may be unto shame that I pretend. Because I know what harsh thoughts or words may break my weak disposition. As of now I think of how weak I feel, how frail. I do not know my own strength or rather my strength in you. It seems I find my identity not just within myself, but within those around me. When I am alone it feels as if this weakness is the only standing truth. But with you, I have a past, a present and future. I have experience and I have substance. In my solitude I debase. I look past all my outer rims that so often distract you and I get to the very center. To the man as a person that is neither male or female and there is this chaos. Emotions and thoughts. I need to understand.

A Fist(Short Story)

Its the fist to the gut, as a fist to the wall. The sudden pain of useless fighting, i find myself beneath the shelf. Where things are laid to be forgotten. I would run, if not for the wasting sickness in my lungs. That makes me weeze, makes me cough, then choke, haggle and yoke. This one burden I do own. So I sit below the shelf, in the dim light. You can catch the scent of this flower, a putrid green tower, of the lesser half of likeness. Making weary all this foolish business. I burn. Yearning ever vigil in a cold steady aim, which preceeds each blood-colored stroke of all the words I wrote.



Yet... yet still you would see more, pages burned, the ash that floats in a dusky room. You were the lone rider, happened upon a dead town. Your horse frisked nervously, eyeing all the dark corners and you felt it shudder as it could not watch them all. Feeling the weight of your body as you hit the ground upon your dismount, you straigtened youself slowly you took careful examination of the whole town. It only consisted of a few admistrative buildings, perhaps one inn housing a tavern. In the silence you heard the echoes of life that resounded the stillness quaking it to thunder. It was so loud. You carried on, hardened your heart, made fast your steps, you were confident becuase you were the only one in this dead town. You paced across the baked earth, hearing it crack beneath your shoes. You made a path of broken dirt to the only house, it's face leaned haphazardly and the windows where broken glasses covering black eyes. You happened upon a room, with fist holes in the wall, dry wall bodies, crumbling to show their insides. It was feeble support for the rotting shelf. Where below sat a limp and dusty puppet. Its vacant button eyes stared past the revolving stillness, through your shoes, and into a world far beyond the one you inhabit. He saw the future, the present, and the past. What he is to be. What he is and always was. His stubborn stitches would stretch, wither and fray. In time he would lay lower even more limp, even more dead. Not disposed to live, but to lay upon the dust still staring blank. But he would always be a puppet, even if one day he was only found to be cloth and cotton. Still he would be a puppet, even if his button eyes one day laid upond a small mass of decaying material half-eaten and destroyed by insects and scavanger birds.

Having pity on the lifeless toy you pick it up in your arms and hold it close. It was the only object resembling anything of the people who once lived in these empty tombs.