my alarm parts the sea, a miracle of demise. grand,
effervescent foam splashes in creamy waves of textures,
on my face the wrinkle-stained dreamlike state. of good,
even futures left to the natural. they progress fantastical
into boxed-up fears, adorations, envies. they cross my mind.
they run, they run from enslaving evil as the image
grows sharper still. gone are the plagues of endearing love.
they run as it hits hard like the stone. totalitarian reality
opens my eyes. silence deafening and dim light blinding.

light seeps through the silent guardians. they watch me
as they block the light from striking me. I hear my breath,
moist like dew, as utterances of suffering. but the shine
must rest on the promise of the day. I violate the guards,
push aside the fabric, bask in the hopeful warmth of being.
reality sets in like the homogenous sea. our freedom to be.
with the sun still ringing in my ears, I scale the sky, ascend.



do you remember that first swipe on tinder
that was made unreceived like a foraging wasp
spreading its toxicity as an unwelcoming sight?
the lone yellow star of the dim forest night flounders
in the kindled heat of its anxious plight; do you remember
that night seven years ago? or maybe six?
the night where you cried yourself to sleep, blessed are you,
the vulnerable and weak, or so you seemed in the moonlight
as the scars of that morning grip you by your ruffled mane,
as they proselytize you to their own version of the truths that remain

do you remember when your thoughts were your own
before the solitary wasp gave way to greater pride?
I do not.


the next monday morning, the hunter enters the den,
and drags out the golden shroud of a lion made un-alive.
of gold the cloak shimmers as it floats down to the central isle,
custom permits its validation and absolution (a right of goodwill),
and so the dead travel to the mountains of old,
enters a pariah, an ambition in stone, a granite passage
emerging from the core.

to him this is everything, everything
it represents. his words evade caution, and need no protection.
his words are true, and truer than true. so be the words
of an undead few. his word is sacred, his word is cursed.
concealment evades the caution it deserves.

upon the mountain the snow lies in stasis, obfuscating
the path soon to be trodden. upon the zenith his words
were crystal, clearer than night, truer than the angels.
the lion stays dead, deader than the deadest, its cry remembered
as a fading vibration. far away, he weeps in his silence,
as he fell below, without his life golden.

what would he do except confide
in the molten truth he chose to relay,
what he believed would save a man
when he believed it would save

A Note Regarding The Circumstances Of Reality

I still dream of you every night,
a fantasy shining ever-bright, full
of color and feel and depth and matter,
unscratched edges rough with pallor

Beside me you lie before my eyes;
I am unable to reject
the price of the past. I look
at the future, still hopeful.

It’s terrifying, but you still sleep
by my side. What I feel is real but
to you, unnatural. You never leave me
but you’re never there.

I touch your face calmly every night.
I utter, “this is perfect; you and me”
I kiss your forehead in respite
“I believe this is our destiny.”