Sep 2013


The glass breaks 
on the cold, traversed floor
I hold my breath as she cries

The blood forms
a peaceful brook of red
I pluck the shards from my hand

In the mirror 
I look at her, shattered
I stare into her fractured eyes

Two Poles

The sun blisters me
but I care not
For I am running.
Running, soaring,
into longer days.
The night is a myth
the day
spins its web of mania.

The Tin House

There is a house down the street from me completely made of tin. I pass by it each morning on my walk to my favorite little convenient store. As I pass I look at the statue of a gargoyle lurking upon the roof, warding off evil sprits and evil people alike. Sometime I think as I pass. I think and I wonder, if I am one of those souls the owner of the little tin house wishes to ban. Then My wonder turns down a different path. As I nearly reach the store I look back once more, at the gargoyle, at the little tin house. Why is this house made of tin? What does the gargoyle wish to extinguish?What is he who dwells inside so afraid of that he must build a house of tin and sit upon it an omen against all evil? What is evil? Read More...