All Tomorrows

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

sudden crystalline bliss - whispers in white within you are drops now of crisp snow descending within me