protagoras

for what is life but the
shabbiest reflection
of a perfect poem?

in waves

imagine, if you will, a horror movie
of the truly terrifying sort.
something evil is about to happen,
and eventually it does.
but your fear does not subside
for you're not even half-way through the movie,
and each new wave of sheer panic is going to be worse.

stretch this movie over months and years.

time is not a healer.
it grates the core of your soul
down to a hollow depression,
that darkens, deepens you forever.

a navel-gazer's fairy tale

once upon a time, a miserable sod of a widower was made to retreat into his navel.

in there he was spied upon from afar by a fairy whom he spied upon, for how else would he know? that lived safe and cosy inside her own belly button, from whence - incapable of fathoming his pain - she ranted and bellowed, proclaiming her museum of navel history to be the best attraction in town. should she have known how much he hated navels?

to be continued

ring

reboot complete.

I've taken off the ring.
yes, it hurt like hell
but it's time to
be happy without you

and I can simply put it on again
if I need to be
invisible

wordgazing

is it a window or a mirror?
he reached out in search of warm skin

3 am

full moon in the lemon tree
and a warm wind travels in the
woods above the house

hush. it is the world’s darkest hour:
every soul is closest to death now

alive in this here web

in my hawaiian shirt
and my tacky shades
I stand motionless
beneath the immaculate sky
inhale the warm cerulean air
at the core of the field of wheat

freedom, you see, is
a concise ache
just below the diaphragm

the exquisite lightness of impossiblity

sudden crystalline bliss -
whispers in white
within you

are

drops now of crisp snow
descending
within me