Moulting (Waiting for Season's Change)

The lake ripples in the sunken moonlight,

and the icy-blue fingertips of winter's night

caress the scattered stars resting upon

a hero's shoulders


The old man's feet wrestle the years

as the floor-tiles grow weary,

cold and brittle

like tree branches after a storm


Every step behind the windows,

caught in the mirror

one side white-hot, like molded steel

the other laid bare; a wasteland of snow

and a promise of days to come


A vision of intemperate times,

swept across a living-room floor;

dreams of fire and ice,

left in the recesses of the mind,

and cradled in the heart.

Burnouts Part 2

Sometimes I hate the words

despise them for all their little fucking paradigms,

sucking on our withered intentions

goddamn it! why is it every word is entangled in some witches brew of 

wanting to be admired,

when in the vast reality of shit this world is, 

nobody gives a damn about the words,

it's just the same fucking buttons I push over and over again

Fuck it all, all the words,

nothing we can do will ever compare...

the stickiness of a mind,

mired in the sameness of it all,

the same sun and stars, the same moon, the same mirror I look into every morning,

the same old worthless phrases

bandied about like so many lost souls in the street

It's hard to figure out the puzzle, you know

desire melds into one - 

anger of the past, the happiness of now, the flame of the future

while the windows remain closed, fresh air deceased

and the words grown stale.

I change my mind...I really do love the words I've grown to hate.