Life is suspended in a moment
between what was and what will be,
between did and did not.
A breath that eases in,
then rushes out
in a laugh -
in a sigh -
in the stillness of now.

The sunlight warm and gentle -
safe...
before it fades
with the quickness of a moment.

These fragile moments
that make up our mortal lives.

Vengeance flies
as the world dies,
and screams rattle off
in the wake of rich men's eyes,
crashing into bombs and cars
and goldmines.

And children watch
with eyes glazed over,
as violence rinses their souls clean
of any innocence that never was.
And the only world they'll ever know
unfolds before them
like a nightmare...
of a sawmill overrun with blood
and the glory of the kill.

 The princess and the ...

Crunching, slimy, oozing green
that kicks to get away from me.
Beat the path into the sand,
I'll take you to the devil's land
where tide and gale do not exist
and then i'll have you with a kiss,
my prince,
who shall forever be
longing for the death of me.

Darkness cold and bitter blue
escapes her lungs,
her cracking lips,
as amber eyes fade before her
and jagged howls of laughter purge the air of hope.
She floats, she falls
to nothingness -
to coldness,
harsh and fading red.

Sorry, not sorry...

I'm sorry, 

I'm not sorry.

To you, 

for you, 

for those "wrongs" 

that weren't actually wrong.

For the tears seeped into pillows.

For the knot of hate in my stomach

rising to consume me.

I'm not sorry.

I can't be.

Anymore.

To survive,

I must learn to be like you -

To rage until the daybreak,

to cut off sensibility where it stands,

to apologize to no one.

No, that's not true. 

I could never be like you.

A poison so better, 

you can't force me to drink.

Now I'm away.

Now I'm free.

I can one day be me,

if this injured bird might heal.

And I'm left with nothing more to say, but:

I'm sorry, I'm not sorry.

To you.

No longer sorry for me.

Autumn Eyes

I see autumn reflected in your eyes -
the fading green,
a panel of mud
where the grass has worn down by the roadside;
the golden corn in the fields;
the blackness of the vacuum of night,
as your pupils suck me in
to bathe in splashes of frosty blue on the outside of your irises.

Your eyes remind of autumn.

The look you give me with them,
reminds me that I can never be with you.

Dove...

When a dove wanders limply through the woods,
its broken wings dragging at its sides
like the sins of so many others
trudged around begrudgingly
like the necessary burden the good take on for the wicked.
When the fresh soil catches its imprint,
tiny claws that wish to hold, but can barely stand,
only to be washed away in the forgotten morning
and overgrown with moss and dew.
When deep crimson bespeckles its fine plumage and crusts and rots to brown
and its breathing begins to falter
like the rush of a tide in summer storms
and it calls out in hopelessness, loneliness,
fear of that of which it knows no concept.
When its last mournful tune escapes its winged heart,
and ears behind the bushes perk up
and teeth glisten like ivory swords of death
and a hunger calls to break it at its neck,
do I dare to walk on by?
Or must I stand there shaking, swallowing the fear that's flooded in my eyes?

I too will.
I too will someday die.