Monday, June 27, 2011


Steeped with angels who softly fly
On browning, withered wings
The voice, the helm, the bitter taste
Of disputes
Of beauty
Of lies

For that planned encounter of chance
I wait within the pale discourse
On floors of ashen memory
We sing
We love
We dance

Clouded skies of wasted greens
Rain of wine, rain of guilt
Wires, codes, keys, and coins
For them
For you
For me

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Summer Roads

Summer roads,
Warm winds.
Warm smiles.
Think I'll stay here for a while.

Remember me by light and fire
Overnight, I'm yours and tired

Morning comes for human beings
Water first, but then its wings

Messanger between the gods
Weaker stable
Weaker lies

'Nother moon we miss eclipsed.
I know.
The tide is high,
Oh things...

They are in a box or car
They are knees and lips and scars
But not things, they grow so fonder.
Place in heart,
The mountains.

-The Ghost Writer

Monday, June 20, 2011

Loosely, Tightly

The air heavy, lost at night
Suffering from the day's defeat
Kisses of black and drinks of white
Salty skin on violent sheets
A touch of yearning, yet to please
Pressed deeply into your spine
Sitting there on burned knees
I decided then I'd call you mine

Friday, June 10, 2011


Eight years have elapsed since I've stood on that side of the mirror, staring in, hopelessly dying to know who I would be when I stepped through the glass.
Now, looking back, I can see another girl standing on that side of the mirror, not knowing it's me she's looking at on the other side. She's hurting, she's lonely. The world is small and in her hands, and the idea that tiny decisions today shatter the rest of your life haunt her.
She cannot hear my voice, and if she could, would she understand it?
If she did hear me, understand my words, what would I say to her?


It's not that I don't care, because I do.
It's not that I am bitter that no one helped me, because I'm not.
It's not that she needs my help, because she doesn't.

Her breath fogs up the glass and she writes letters to someone.
Begging for someone to swoop in and save her and tell her what she wants to hear.

I won't say anything to her, for fear of tainting what would be an otherwise perfectly uninhibited, uninfluenced, unguided growth into an unknown direction. She is beginning her embarkation on what she thinks is a seemingly fruitless, futile journey into becoming something amazing.
She is smart, she is strong, she is beautiful.
She has the capacity to be better than anything that ever was before her.

So I will maintain my seat, the priestess before the veil, and let her travel her own way to the moon.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

I Am The Hunter

Walk through the trees, little deer
Daintily step over the underbrush
And nose through the leaves and grass

Your ears are quite capable to discern the sound of predators
Occasionally you perk up and swivel your head around
Looking for something that might have seen you

Gingerly you meander about in and out of danger.
But you know you do, and you try to be careful
But you never quite had your wits about you.

If you hadn't wandered into my garden that day,
Maybe if you hadn't trashed my flowers.
I wouldn't be here, stalking.

And waiting.

Oh, little deer. I need not trap you.
You end up in open clearings and places
And box yourself in.

Maybe it was I who lied to you.
You weren't aware of who I am
Or what I'm capable of...