Incessant, incessant –
I find my thoughts arcing in a crescent
from crescendos to abysses,
there isn’t a second that my raging thoughts misses.

From the morning to sundown,
I find I can’t stop mourning those put down –
or celebrating my speciality,
or therein what I perceive to be.

After many months and yearning years,
I find that there is thus one way –
one way to render these rites as relinquished –
and it comes calling with crawling clocks.


The Death of a Someone

I saw a woman standing alone,
at a grave, desolate and afraid.
There was a lost someone, it was plain to see,
I know not when or where,
but here she is now, standing there.

Perhaps a sibling – an acquaintance,
who had a life cut short for reasons unknown,
a brother left hanging,
or a sister still wilting.

A parent maybe – she’s old enough;
lost to drugs, to murder, to pain –
a thousand ways to die,
but only one goodnight.

Could be a lover – haven’t we all
loved and then lost
in more ways than one.

I saw her for a second before passing away.
I was just passing by, her a glimpse in my eye,
but I not in her’s, as I walked to my own life’s demise,
while I wondered why she had lost her’s.

All That’s Left

Soft-tinged lights
cast the toys a mellow glow.
The colors have dulled;
they litter around
in melancholy patches.
Such sadness
had not always occupied
their plastic molds.

Bygone hands
moved their painted parts.
Long gone were the sounds
of fighting and clashing.
Only yelling and screaming
occupied the somber space.

The blood itself
had seemed to drip
over the fallen figures
and flipped cars.

They stayed there,
a symbol of a false future.
A future so concrete,
cracked at a moment’s notice.


I yearn for a soft kiss
and not a cold bottle’s lips.
I have felt them touch mine
too many times before
and yet – and yet death –
not the corporal kind –
but all the others that have graced the body
before the final deed –
never seem to grow lighter
with each passing.

But still,
they make the pulling
of the final straw
looser from the hands of life.

Given Up

All was lost in a vapid place.
They would have rather given it up
in a colorful era – in a time of doing –
but instead they left a dull and tired wake
and yet the following wake
was still more vivid
than the life of its remembered.

What was taken along the way,
other than the breath of the repressed?
The burglar was the mourner’s stares,
their clumsy words and unhelpful prayers.
Displayed then, and continued now,
despite the loss of a person whom they ‘cared’.

Earthen grey, and dusty day
were already known in the eyes of the deceased.
It seemed to fit the entire mood
that such a color would take its high place.
But a tone of the like had already plagued –
and simply skipped the souls of ‘saved’.

Last Time

Drudging your hopeless coat
Along with your hopeless fight
Gripping the stairs with your broken knuckles
Your broken, cut-off stammer
You lean against the door
Trying to make a noise
To help you as your thighs stop
You claw at the door
Scratching the wet, peeling wood
Your thoughts are only on the other side
Your fingers feel the relief
Of being given up
And the air in front of face
Gets warm for the last time