Damaged Man

Quite not right, he seethes and indulges His need for death and decay.
With the heated rotten words fuming from his breath, the air of his soul,    once pure, has gone rancid.

Only the putrid bile of his necrotic viscera and malice remains.

He claims to be a god.

But his eyes remain as a window through which one may catch a glimpse of an angel with broken, bloody wings                  and a halo of strung razor blades.

The undertones of his blind hatred              and the notes of his vengeful,        .    lost-spirit-choir

cue an ancient primordial fear…                                There is danger near.

Speak, Bird, Speak!

​Little Bird, Speak to me.

Tell me what you see:

From the great heights in which you fly,

To the tales you’ve gathered while low to the ground.

Your song is a sweet, soothing sound

And surely is born from the womb of 

Enlightenment or madness.

(The two are the same and, which, it matters not).

Tell me all you’ve learned,

All that you know.

I wish I could see through your eyes,

That I could go where you go.

I wish I could he brave and fly like you. 

Glass Heart

There is within me a question,

Singular and not well-hidden.

I am no master of illusions

Nor do I draw proper conclusions,

Always lost in thought, 

Losing the world and losing time.

It all fades away

Like so many lines in the distance.

I cannot very well hide

The poison in my heart,

Not the cure it says would save me.

There is a smile bleeding through

My tissue paper facade of nonchalance.

And I feel so warm and whole with it

Plastered there silly as it seems.

And with all these feelings and smiles

And thousands of miles, 

How is it that there is so much still

Hiding away in a grave of fear?