Empty Shelf

In the night-time hours,
the footsteps of a madman,
remain calm, even against
the call of the faceless
wonders, and the embrace
of the neon widows,
unfettered, unrelenting
the crunch of broken glass,
scattered underfoot, splintered
dreams, yet the feet keep moving
sometimes fast, sometimes slow,
always forward, till
everything becomes one in
the moonlight, still trudging
over bodies, sinking into
the marshy pavement, feeling
numb after one last drink,
and that look in her eyes,
speaking to me from the
edges of memory, soft words
and lips, painted across my own,
yet moving away now, afraid to
die while the night is young,
like a new star, the city
twinkles with pure intent,
yet remains incomplete,
a masterpiece torn by
regret,
gathering dust on an
empty shelf.

Untitled

Through that window pane,
as the rain rolls downwards
beady, loving streams,
in droves the innocents rave,
snarling eyes, with fear
in tow, balefully gazing
out that window pane,
when the waters' rush
outside muddy river banks,
spindly fingers caressing
frozen faces, cold breath
upon the window pane,
Death, that old
reprobate, hanging about the
trees strewn thick like haystacks,
he'll catch his death in the rain
dripping through the branches
like honey,
run away now, the view is grand
and there is safety in
numbers,
behind that window pane.

Silent Past

The morning bell tolls,
for those who listen,
a gentle reminder of
what things may come,
trace the path of the
sun from eastern
shores, for the west
is where all things end,
let your weary mind
rest now, unburdened
by the silent past,
live in the fluid moment,
not what is set in
stone, recall the
night, and embrace
the dawn.

Oct. 3rd

I got a little chuckle this morning when I was perusing the talk threads on Yelp. It's been just about a year since the end of my 3 year relationship with a certain someone, and this person is still obviously quite bitter about how it ended I guess.

What posseses her to do that? - She has a good man in her life, and by all accounts they are quite happy together. Despite this, she continues to make little jabs and references about me in public forums. I didn't even end the relationship - she did - so why all the hostility?

I realize that I'm pretty much an asshole when it comes to relationships; lord knows I've made mistakes, and will likely to continue making mistakes since I'm dreadfully slow on the uptake. But one thing I will never be is bitter. I want people to be happy!

This isn't the first time I've addressed this issue, I know, I know, but it seems to me that people ought to appreciate what they've got, and not let the past run their lives so much. In other words: grow up! Or don't, and remain a bitter and angry person. I'll choose the former, thank you very much.

Short Stories

Every touch receptive,
senses heightened to
the pinnacle of love,
not alone now, but with
a predilection for faith,
hungry now, yet willing
to wait for the end of time,
without foresight, blindly
following a bruised heart,
calmness descends along
the brooding mind, as
her image arises again
up through the cataclysm,
shimmering in the
breast of black-winged
night, protecting the
innocents, and a man
who forgot how to
forgive himself,
yet still there is
promise,
the sun also rises
in the embrace of hope.

Port Window

Three silver moons wrapped around
her fingers, demurely bathing
in the morning mist, lips
pressed against the stained glass,
candied prison, melting the heart,
steeling the nerves on the turn
of the knife, in the distance,
a keen-eyed reflection, divine
by the rights of men, stands
warily, beckoning ancient vessels
to port, silently, across
amber waves, into the jagged
graveyard of the sea.

Tornado

Here in the darkness,
the silence echoes
around the cavernous
mind, a keepsake
of discordant love,
broken now, splintered
across a chasm,
unhindered from the
heat of the bloody
red moon, dripping with
good intentions, like honeyed
words from a liar's lips,
as the dagger slowly drives
into a forlorn heart, smiling
sweetly all the while, as porcelain
fingers devour all that is left behind,
one hand washing the other, till the
wounds turn raw, and dead eyes fervently
scan the horizon for a way out,
up through the darkness now descended,
a mirage, clearly reminiscent of a kiss
now turned to ashes dancing on the playful
wind, on the crumbling earth, laid to rest.