The Poet XVIII
She loves
to love,
and to be loved.
She wants so desperately
for you to love her,
even if she doesn’t
have the space for you,
even if she doesn’t
have the time for you,
even if she’s not willing
to catch you,
even if it costs you yourself,
even if she lacks the space for you
where it matters most,
even if
she makes you feel
like she’s going to solve
all your problems.
Her greatest sin
is not that she loves
effortlessly,
it is that she desires
so ravenously
to be loved.
The Poet XVI
She’s playing games with the laws of Love. She thinks it’s a rule to be bent or warped. Maybe she’ll succeed, until reality snaps back into place, and people die. It will be God’s tears that create the hurricanes, while the rest of us seek out the high ground, and pray.
The Poet XV
She was too good at keeping her inner child alive. She still believes that Love is something to be wielded at her leisure. Blind to the damage the desire is going to call forward. She knows walking away would save more than one life, but she’d rather die than face truth. Perhaps that’s one of the most beautiful parts of her. Perhaps, it’s also one of the most dangerous.
The Poet XIV
The moon goddess called out. Mythras plunged the blade into the shoulder of the bull, so that new things may grow forth from the fertile ground.
The Poet XIII
Some things are only beautiful
because they are short lived.
Other things become ugly,
because we try to hang on too long.
The Poet XII
She’s ravenous for life,
warping the fabric of reality
consuming endlessly,
until the rubber-bands tighten
ripping reality open.
The Poet XI
That one’s got blood on her hands.
Gun still smoking,
with the smell of roses and lead.
Stealing love from the dead,
with conviction in her bones.
The Poet X
She chase’s lose tongues, praying for her own, remaining indifferent to the curse that accompanies it. She settles for the feeling, terrified to speak it into existence. With her dying words, she’ll cloak truth with pleasantries in the name of peace, never truly knowing anyone. In it, she’ll find more art than most will ever know.
The Poet IX
She’s bound
by chains of her own making,
clinging to her own heartbreak,
fearful of the fire.
The Poet VII
Twirling and twisting
in the ether,
pushing and pulling
with the Sandman,
I want to say you shouldn’t be here,
when you say, “shhh, enough, just be.”
The Poet VI
There’s a silent scream
that too few hear
when beautiful things
create tension
in the night air.
The Poet V
The power of peace
when seen by misery
is a waking force.
It is only the alarm clock sounding.
The Poet IV
The cage is open
she sits on her perch
staring at the open door
daydreaming and trying to remember,
she already knows how to fly
The Poet III
Something was Lost in Translation,
I saw it
She saw it
We both saw it.
We marched onward,
through the fog.
Back to a place
Long forgotten.