old wounds.

how easy it is to forget
how your heart beats
when you haven’t felt it in awhile
or how your own voice
feels like a stranger
speaking whispers into a maze
you can’t get out of
ransacking my very own vocabulary
but oppressing a dead melancholy



a lonely wild
in the whisper of a loom
a faint song to the wary moon
poignant to the wilderness
treading to bare a heart
but a hushed grave
so quiet
so quiet to bloom
intangible enchantment
as winter bleeds
and spring creeps in
I hear the whist of
of an angel’s wing

It’s the black abyss.

Stranger is the face that paints me quiet, I have been away far too long. My penmanship is rusty and creeks to the sound of a whistling crane.  I labor like a giant that lacks coordination, and stumbling on my tongue; I cannot balance the same. I tear into confusion interjected with beats of frustration in my heart. I let a lot of it go… waiting to hear a voice from the past. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I frolic in my own imagination, to wait no more. Let thy mouth rebut and don’t torture me into that black abyss.

I regret nothing.

I am the fall
like rain from thunder
my footsteps you cannot hear
into the depths of separated souls
like the leaves falling from trees
the skeletons submerge
and my musings remain
thoughts from a faraway time
and the cold breath of a grave
the flowers stay dishevel’d
from all the winds
that tied fate in knots
until thou didst fade
but the swell of a moon
gives me new light